


Go Out Alone Into America

by patchfire, raving_liberal



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: BAMF Claire Temple, BAMF Karen Page, Big Bang Challenge, But Technically There Is A Kiss, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Exploitation, Claire Temple And The Bullshittery Of Superheroes, Defenders Big Bang, Extremely EXTREMELY Minor Unresolved Romantic Tension, Frank Has A Dog, Gen, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major Character Injury, Minor Luke Cage/Claire Temple, Physical Disability, Punisher Karen Page, Punishing Is A Two Person Business, Reporter Karen Page, Team Bonding, Three Hotdogs Is Not An Unreasonable Amount Of Hotdogs Frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-11 12:51:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11714751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchfire/pseuds/patchfire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raving_liberal/pseuds/raving_liberal
Summary: Karen thought she’d left extralegal vigilantes behind. Instead, she’s literally stumbling over Frank everywhere she turns, and not only that, but he’s got a brand new, popcorn-loving second Karen in tow. Even after discovering they're both following the same lead, Karen hopes she can keep her investigation separate from Frank's Punishing, but her hopes and Frank both hit the ground in a Bronx warehouse. In the aftermath, Karen compromises her apparently weak ethics as a badly-injured Frank trains her to be his Punishing protege. How long can she convince herself she’s doing it because she has to instead of because she wants to?





	1. Chains Are Mostly Symbolic, Anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to alby_mangroves for the beautiful art for this story. Alby's art masterpost for Go Out Alone Into America can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11763597). You can find more of alby's work on [Tumblr](http://artgroves.tumblr.com/).

There aren’t any people with unusual powers involved in food safety, Karen thinks to herself as she reaches the warehouse. She looks around before quickly and quietly picking the lock on the chain keeping the main door closed, then slips inside. She puts the chain and the lock just inside the door.

“I’ll put you back when I leave,” she says to the lock and chain, who only clatter a little bit as she sets them down. 

Karen pulls out her flashlight and heads down the hall towards what should be the main storage room, based on the sketch she has. “Just get in, take the pictures, and head out,” she repeats to herself as she reaches the main door. The door opens without a sound, and she flips off the flashlight, giving her eyes time to adjust to the dim lighting provided by the streetlight spilling in through the high windows ringing the room. 

She pulls out her camera and heads towards the line of tallest shelving, peering up at the labeled boxes on the top shelf. The warehouse closed for the day hours earlier, and there shouldn’t be anything in the aisles, which is why her first thought when she trips is utter confusion. 

“What in the world?” she says out loud, catching herself on the shelf nearest her. 

“Ma’am,” says a familiar voice from ground-level. 

Karen straightens and frowns at the shelf in front of her, carefully not looking down. “Frank?” she says incredulously. 

“You mind keeping it down a little?” Frank—because that’s definitely Frank—asks. “I’ve been staking these bastards out for two weeks and I don’t wanna lose ‘em.”

“I’m getting photographic proof of their callous disregard for food safety and the health of the public, Frank,” Karen says through slightly gritted teeth. 

“Well, I don’t know anything about food safety, but _I’m_ here ‘cause these guys’ve been kidnapping a buncha college kids and selling them for parts on the black market,” Frank says.

“Are you sure you’re at the right warehouse?” 

Frank chuckles, the sound mostly coming from underneath the bottom shelf, where he must have crammed his body. “No offense, ma’am, but if somebody’s in the wrong warehouse here, you really think that somebody out of the two us is gonna be me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Karen says, moving her gaze from the shelves so she can glare at Frank’s head. He doesn’t seem to notice or care, though, as he continues looking through the scope on his rifle, the other eye squinched closed. 

“Well, everybody gets to have their opinion, I figure,” Frank says. 

Karen glares at Frank’s head for a few more seconds before she has an idea. “If you help me find the proof I need, I’ll be gone sooner.” 

“What kind of proof’re you looking for, exactly?”

“Open containers of cooking oil with contaminants introduced.” 

“We talkin’ bottles or drums?”

“Drums,” Karen says. 

“Alright,” Frank says, managing to sound begrudging in exactly two syllables. He slides out from under the shelf and pops up onto his feet, rifle still in hand. He has on the same black bulletproof vest with white spray-painted skull that she’d seen him in over a year ago. 

Karen rolls her eyes and shakes her head a little at the vest. “They’re going to be white or light grey.” 

“So we’re looking for some conspicuously open white drums full of cooking oil?” Frank asks. “And once we find ‘em, you’re gone.”

“Once we find them and I document them, I’ll go back out the front and relock the door, yes,” Karen says. 

Frank chuckles again. He has a fresh black eye, and his nose looks like it was broken in the recent past. “You pick the lock to get in here?”

“Yes. Why?” 

“Good to learn new skills, I guess,” Frank says. He keeps his rifle in his hands, pointed towards the floor, and quietly starts down the row of shelves in the direction opposite of where Karen came from. 

Karen scowls at his back and shakes her fist a little, then heads the direction she was walking before tripping over Frank. The row she’s on mostly has huge boxes, but she can’t make out the label on the sides. “Probably toilet paper,” she mutters scornfully. 

“Yeah, it’s a good front,” Frank says without looking back at Karen. “Crates and barrels coming in and out all the time.” 

“And organs?” Karen asks. 

“In some of those crates.”

Karen walks another ten feet before stopping suddenly. “Are the… could the ‘extra parts’ be the contaminants? _If_ you’re in the right warehouse.” 

Frank’s shoulders rise and drop slightly. “Could be. Food contamination ain’t exactly on my radar.”

“Unless you’ve figured out a way to survive on only air, it probably should be,” Karen says tartly, pivoting to continue walking past the shelves. 

“Benefit of being in the military, I guess. I eat what’s in front of me and I don’t ask questions,” Frank says. “Doesn’t keep me up at night.”

Karen smiles a little to herself. “It might if you eat the wrong thing.” 

“Sixteen straight months of MREs, and it’s gonna take more than a little dirty cooking oil to keep me up,” Frank says. He raises his rifle slightly, gesturing with it towards the endcap of the next row of shelves. “Those your drums?”

“MREs follow strict guidelines,” Karen says as she turns to look where Frank’s rifle is pointing. “Only the finest for America’s finest.” She scrutinizes the drums and then raises her camera, taking several quick shots. “I think they are. Can you read the labels?” 

“Ain’t exactly fluent in Russian,” Frank says. “Some kind of fat. Vegetable, maybe?” 

Karen walks closer, zooming in on the labels for several shots, then more of the broken seals on the drums. “I’ll confirm it once I’m back in the office.” 

“Alright. You got your pictures. Time to get out of here,” Frank says, jerking his head in the direction of the front entrance. 

“What are you looking for?” Karen asks. “A crate labeled ‘Human Kidneys’?” 

Frank shakes his head. “I already got all the proof I need.”

“They won’t be coming in the front door, will they?” 

“No ma’am, they will not.”

“I’d just hate to run into some bad guys and have to scream,” Karen says with a sigh, tucking her camera back into her bag. “My story should be in the paper day after tomorrow, or you can read it online.” 

“Go on,” Frank says, gesturing at the door again. “You wanna be gone before they get here.”

“Or I want pictures,” Karen says honestly. “I’ll check around after I’m out.” 

“Whatever you hear, don’t come back in,” Frank says. 

Karen frowns, then shrugs and heads down the hallway, waving over her shoulder to Frank. “There you are,” she says to the lock and chain, picking them up as quietly as possible. “Thanks for waiting on me.” She slips out the front door, replaces the chain and the lock, and then steps into the shadows near the building, edging towards the side and listening. 

Fifteen minutes pass, then automatic gunfire starts echoing through the warehouse, punctuated by screams. “That was unnecessarily loud, Frank,” Karen says to herself. She moves around the side of the building, waiting for Frank to emerge. 

Another few minutes later, Frank exits the building in one piece, though bleeding from his left shoulder. He glances around, notices Karen, and gives her a nod before jogging off into the night. 

“What a ridiculous human being,” Karen says with a huff, then walks in the opposite direction through a few alleys before hailing a cab to take her to her apartment. She transfers the photos off her camera, immediately emailing copies to her editor, and then spends an hour verifying her Russian translation. 

After her story is more or less ready for editing the next day, Karen spends another hour typing up the story she _would_ submit about Frank, with names redacted. She know she won’t submit it, but it’s still safer to leave names out. 

 

Two and a half weeks pass before Karen runs into Frank again, and it isn’t even in a secluded spot or after dark. Instead, it’s 1:30 PM, inside a bodega. Karen spots the back of Frank’s ballcap-covered head and goes up directly behind him. 

“Those aren’t MREs.” 

“Never said that’s _all_ I eat,” Frank says. “Though I gotta say, the chili mac’s way better than the canned kind.” He holds up a can of chili and waggles it. 

“And how do either hold up to diner chili?” Karen asks.

“Oh, diner beats ‘em both, hands down.”

“Then why would you even purchase that?” Karen asks, pointing to the can of chili. “Waste of money.” 

“Don’t exactly have to luxury of dining out every night,” Frank says. “These are three for a dollar.”

Karen laughs. “Diner food is hardly ‘dining out’, Frank.” 

“Show me a diner with three bowls of chili for a buck, then.”

“They say there’s something called cooking that’s cheaper,” Karen says with a shrug. “I wouldn’t know.” 

“Heating up chili’s about all the cooking I can do on a hotplate,” Frank says. “Don’t you got someplace to be other than worrying about my eating habits.”

“It’s called a lunch break. People who are gainfully employed have them.” 

“Probably got dental, too, huh?”

Karen smiles widely at him, flashing her teeth. “What do you think?” 

“Yeah. Bet you floss every night, too.”

Karen shakes her head. “Evening is too unpredictable, so I started flossing after breakfast.” 

“Course you did,” Frank says. “Well, I’m gonna go pay for my waste of money in a can.” He taps his fingers to the bill of his cap. “Ma’am.’

“Frank,” Karen replies, feeling somehow both amused and exasperated. 

 

Despite herself, Karen goes back to the same bodega at least seven times in the eight days following their encounter, and on the eighth visit, nine days later, she spots Frank walking a block ahead of her in the direction of the bodega. “I almost didn’t see him,” she admits quietly to herself. “I never thought he’d have a _dog_.” 

She darts across the cross-street, earning her at least three different horns honking, and then walks as fast as she can to catch up with Frank before he can enter the bodega or anywhere else. Nearly out of breath, she takes a deep breath and then asks “Can I pet your dog?” 

“You stalking me now?” Frank asks, sounding amused. He stops walking, though, and waves his hand at the dog in an invitation. “Don’t touch her ears. She don’t like her ears touched.”

“Most people don’t either,” Karen says, holding her hand out for the dog to sniff. The dog is somewhat stocky and white, with a bunch of what Karen can only call red freckles. After a moment, she starts petting the dog, who pants happily at her. “What’s her name?” 

“Well…” Frank gives Karen a half-hearted smile. “Her name’s Karen, but I figure I’ll have to change it now, huh, what with me apparently not being dead to you anymore and all.”

Karen opens her mouth to retort, then closes it, thinking as she keeps petting the dog. “It’s very efficient of you,” she finally says. 

“Is that right?” Frank asks, sounding amused again. 

“Fewer names to remember. Your entire social circle has the same name this way, right?” 

“Didn’t realize I _had_ a social circle. Does stalking count?”

“You’re the one who keeps turning up where I am,” Karen says mildly, still petting the dog. “Two points really only makes a line though, right? Social line.” 

“She likes popcorn,” Frank says. 

“Do you take her to the movies?” Karen asks as she straightens. 

Frank _pffts_. “No, I don’t take her to the movies. She likes the bagged kind. You know, for next time you decide to follow me so you can pet my dog.”

“I didn’t know until five minutes ago you had a dog,” Karen says. “I’m going to be breaking into an office a few blocks over soon. I’m thinking that probably you won’t need to be there, at least?” 

“Depends. What’d they do?”

“Fraudulent profit reports in order to run up stock prices, or at least that’s what I need to confirm.” 

“Yeah, doesn’t really sound like my kind of venture,” Frank says. “See you ‘round, I guess. C’mon, Karen.” He tugs gently on the leash, and Karen-the-dog reluctantly pulls her muzzle away from Karen’s hand, which she had been snuffling. Karen-the-dog looks mournfully at her human namesake as she trots away; Frank doesn't give so much as a single glance backwards.

Karen confirms that the firm is running up stock prices, which gets her another byline on the front page, albeit below the fold. Even though she knew the likelihood of seeing Frank while she was executing her breaking and entering was slim, she still feels oddly disappointed the day the story runs. She picks up a small bag of popcorn later that day and throws it into her purse. Then she thinks about Frank’s comments and promptly avoids the entire street the bodega is on for two days straight. 

Another week passes, even after she goes back to the bodega, without seeing Frank, and she replaces the bag of popcorn with a newer one, in case Karen-the-dog doesn’t appreciate stale popcorn. She finally literally runs into Frank one evening three blocks from the office, when she turns sharply down an alley, just in case someone’s following her. She runs directly into Frank’s back. 

“Ouch!” Karen says. 

“You ever consider getting you one of them sticks like your lawyer boyfriend’s got?” Frank asks. “Seems like seeing where you're going ain’t your strong suit.” He looks rough, even by Frank-standards, his face the healing aftermath of fight, with a busted lip, a bruise spread over one cheekbone, and a gash through his eyebrow that Karen would bet her entire week’s grocery budget he stitched himself. 

“I’m walking home!” Karen says sharply. 

“Don’t recall you living in an alley. Kind of a downgrade, yeah?” Frank asks.

“I walk home a different way every day. For safety.” 

“You walk down an alley,” Frank says. “In Hell’s Kitchen. For safety.”

“No one expects it.” 

Frank sighs, his eyes rolling heavenwards before giving his head a resigned shake. “Guess you could walk me home, then.”

“Where is that, Frank?” Karen asks.

“It’s, uh…” He scratches the back of his head. “Fluctuating. Yeah.”

“Where is it tonight?” 

“How ‘bout you can get me as far as your place, and I’ll make my way from there.”

“That sounds more like _you_ walking _me_ home, doesn’t it?” 

“Are you accusing me of having an ulterior motive?” Frank asks, putting his hand on his chest in mock disbelief. He doesn’t have the stupid vest on, at least. 

“I think you just need to be more careful and precise with your language. Say what you mean,” Karen says. 

Frank looks like he’s holding back a laugh, or at least a smile, as he sticks out his elbow in Karen’s direction. “Ma’am,” he says, sounding amusingly gallant, “can you do me the honor of escorting me as far as your place, at which point I’ll go wherever else I need to go?” 

“Hmph,” Karen says with a small snort as she grabs his elbow. “You just want to see where I live.”

“I’m sure that’s it exactly,” Frank agrees, a little too fast.

Karen gives him a suspicious look but starts walking again. “What were you doing in my favorite alley?” 

“Business.”

“Mmm,” Karen says, checking the alley behind them and the street ahead as she turns left to continue home. “Stock trading, right?” 

“Yeah, you know it,” Frank says. “I’m a Wall Street guy.”

“Almost anyone can clean up well enough to blend in there, if necessary.” 

Frank just nods, and Karen briefly imagines Frank in an Armani suit. It reminds her of _George of the Jungle_ , although with more blood and murder than that movie, not to mention less hair. She snorts once, then wonders about how many gallons of body oil they used in the movie, which all too quickly leads to the idea of Frank ripping off his shirt and putting on body oil. 

“Dammit!” she says as they turn another corner.

“You alright?” Frank asks. “Remember a deadline or something?”

“No!” Karen says, a little more sharply than she means to. She walks another half a block trying to block out the images now in her brain and failing miserably before she realizes she’s still holding Frank’s elbow. She pulls her hand away and shakes both it and her head. 

“Yeah,” Frank says quietly. He sighs, more of a slightly raising and lowering of his shoulders than a sound. “Alright, yeah.” He gives Karen a faint smile, nods at her once, and turns to walk away from her, back in the direction they had just come from. 

Karen shakes her head again, mostly in annoyance with herself, and finishes walking the rest of the way home. She makes herself look through her own files, reminding herself of who, exactly, Frank is, and how they’re connected. She’s lying in bed before she remembers that she forgot to eat dinner, and she sighs and pulls her pillow over her head. Better to sleep than to keep thinking. 

 

The next time Karen sees Frank, he doesn’t just have his rifle. He’s using it. Karen flattens herself against the wall, resisting the urge to pound her head against the wall. Frank’s full attention is focused through his rifle scope, and on the street below, at least three bullets find their mark, sending a man wearing the distinct yellow and purple of the 39th Street Gehenna to the ground, bloody and still. Two more men rush from the building into the street, one of them also bleeding and being dragged by the second. Karen realizes that one of the shots must have gone through the wall, effectively taking out a second target, intentionally or not. 

Knowing Frank, she’s going to go with at least semi-intentionally. Her suspicion is confirmed when two clean headshots drop both fleeing Gehennas. Frank begins calmly disassembling his rifle and packing it and his other equipment into a case. Karen decides that she may still be able to determine what’s going on in the building next door if she slides around to the other side of the roof, and she quietly starts doing just that. 

“You come up here to judge me?” Frank asks without looking up from his rifle case. “Or you just like to watch?”

“You’re the one interfering in my investigating!” 

“Well, I’m all done now. You can get on with your investigating,” Frank says. He snaps the case closed and picks it up as he stands. 

“At least I don’t have any evidence I’ve shot anyone, when the police find me up here?” 

Frank looks down at the battered-looking watch on his wrist. “You probably got six, maybe seven minutes to get what you need before the cops come. Better get to it, yeah?”

“You’re ever so helpful for a murderer,” Karen says dryly. 

“You’re welcome,” Frank says. He slings a pack over one shoulder and heads towards the other side of the roof and its door. 

“I really really want to dislike you more than I currently do!” Karen whispers to the door after it swings shut. She slides to the other side of the roof and pulls out the binoculars she had originally planned on using as soon as she reached the roof. Most of the windows have closed blinds, and she’s putting them away when she freezes, feeling like someone else is there again. 

“Karen,” a soft, familiar voice whispers from the shadows. 

“Oh, tonight just gets even better!” Karen hisses. 

“I heard you up here,” Matt says, stepping forward into the dim light filtering up to the rooftop. “First I heard the gunfire, but then I heard you. You’re not hurt?”

Karen resists the urge to roll her eyes at the Daredevil costume, even though she knows Matt can’t see her doing it. “The gunfire wasn’t me.” 

“I know. It was Frank, wasn’t it?”

“ _I_ only wanted to look into those windows across the street!” 

“He didn’t—” Matt breaks off, shifting foot to foot. The Daredevil costume creaks as he moves. “You should stay away from him, Karen. He’s a dangerous man.”

“Working on a story, Matthew! And you have no right to attempt to give me _advice_ ,” Karen says. 

“I care about you, Karen, you know that I—”

“Spare me the sermon!” Karen says, scowling at Matt and hoping he senses it. He must, because he huffs, and some of the fight goes out of him.

“Fine. You’re right,” he concedes. “How have you been, Karen?”

Karen can feel her mouth drop open. “How have I _been_?”

“Is the _Bulletin_ treating you well?” Matt asks. 

“Dental,” Karen says, baring her teeth at him in some odd cross between a grimace and a smile. 

“Good. That’s good.” He pauses, then suddenly quirks his head to the side. “The police are coming. You should go.”

“I was about to leave when you showed up,” Karen says. 

Matt stands there awkwardly for a second, then says, “Be safe, Karen,” before performing a running dive off the side of the building, because why not add a little ninja showboating to this already frustrating night?

“‘Be safe’,” Karen mimics. “Just like you’re safe and honest, Matt?” She does go down the stairs and out the back of the building, away from the growing police presence. “How did I manage to run into _two_ idiots in one night?” The streets of the city don’t provide any answer, which is both what Karen expected and immensely irritating at the same time. 

 

None of Karen’s leads on that story pan out, which means that a few days later, she ends up spending most of the day in the office, trying to find enough information for one of the possible stories on her radar. 

“Ugh!” Karen says to her computer.

Ellison must have had an ear out for her, because he swings into her office with one hand on the door frame. “I’ve got a story for you, if you want it.”

“I don’t want to investigate the bike scam,” Karen says quickly. 

“Who gives a shit about bikes? I’d never waste you on bikes,” Ellison says. “Kids.”

“What about them?” Karen asks, shifting to look at Ellison. 

“Almost a dozen girls missing, ages eleven to fifteen. You interested?”

“Yes. What else is known?” 

“Manhattan and the Bronx,” Ellison says, holding up a manilla folder. “I’ve got the file right here, everything we know, point of contact at the 52nd precinct in the Bronx.”

Karen holds her hand out for the folder. “Families talking to the press or no?” 

“Girls are all black and Latina. Nobody’s picking it up, except for us,” Ellison says. 

“Of course,” Karen says, even though she knows Ellison isn’t the one to be angry with. “I’m on it. Maybe a profile of some of the girls first?” 

Ellison nods. “However you want to tackle it. You know I’ve got faith in you.”

Karen returns the nod, opening the folder and beginning to look through it. A couple of hours later, Karen has a few interviews set up with family members, as well as other sites she wants to look into. Her next several days planned out, she leaves in plenty of time to eat dinner at a reasonable hour in her apartment, which feels weird to her. 

After two days of talking to teachers, family members, and friends of the missing girls, and trekking across the city, Karen notices the feeling of being followed right about the time she’s only a few blocks away from her apartment. She notices the feeling again when she leaves the next morning, and it only takes a few blocks before she decides she will _not_ give Matt any satisfaction of acknowledging he’s following her, since it almost certainly has to be him. The feeling of being followed comes and goes during the day, but becomes almost constant in the evening over the next few days, which cements that it must be Matt. 

After she’s stopped herself from yelling at Matt for the fourth time, it occurs to her that it _could_ be Frank. She considers going back to his bodega—with a bag of popcorn—just to find him and possibly yell at him, but overall, he hadn’t been following her so much as coincidentally being the same places. 

That leads her back to the conclusion that it’s Matt following her, but she still doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it, which precludes calling him or otherwise contacting him to tell him to stop. 

“Maybe one day he’ll get close enough I can just turn around and tell him to stop,” Karen tells her take-out container. “I could start walking very slowly tomorrow.” The second story, profiling four more of the missing girls, prints in the morning, and Karen knows that may mean more calls to the _Bulletin_ for her to investigate as the day goes on. 

Karen even tries to turn a corner suddenly, or duck in a doorway a few times, but she never has the feeling that Matt is close at all the next night, despite the continuing feel of being followed. Karen sighs and tries to push the feeling away, and even manages a few times. 

Two days after that, after a couple of odd tips that Karen’s beginning to think may turn out, she’s walking cautiously but briskly down the street when a hand reaches out and grabs her around the waist. Another hand clamps itself over her mouth as she’s dragged into a dark, recessed doorway. 

“Shhhh,” Frank whispers, close enough to her ear that she can feel the warmth of his breath. Karen relaxes a little when she recognizes Frank’s voice, and once she has a moment, she realizes his smell is familiar, too—gun oil and dog. The smell is more reassuring and less unpleasant than she would have expected. Karen sighs, wondering what, exactly, is going on. 

After a few more beats, Frank moves his hand away from Karen’s mouth. “Watch,” he says quietly. Not long after, a large white guy with a shaved head walks down the sidewalk, casting his eyes around like he’s looking for someone. When he moves, Karen can clearly see the gun strapped at his waist, and what looks like a second gun on his ankle. 

Karen waits long enough to be sure the guy is gone. “That’s not Matt,” she whispers. 

“He’s been after you for a couple of blocks,” Frank says, releasing her. “Didn’t mean to scare you or nothing, ma’am.”

“If he’s the same reason…” Karen says, trailing off. “It may be more like a couple of weeks.” 

Frank sighs, taking a step away from her to give her some space. “You caught the story, yeah?”

“The girls? If you read the _Bulletin_ , you’d know that.” 

“Ain’t exactly got a lot of time for pleasure reading.”

“You could skim the bylines!” 

Frank sighs again. Karen realizes he’s wearing the skull vest, which means he’s probably—she doesn’t like to think of it as ‘punishing’— _working_. “Maybe let this one go, Karen,” he says, strangely gentle. She can’t remember the last time he called her by her first name, which makes her briefly consider that he must truly mean what he says. 

“No,” she says after another moment passes, shaking her head. “I have good sources. I don’t need you trying to protect me or whatever it is you’re doing.” 

“I’m not,” Frank says. He sounds honest, not like he’s protesting. “But it’s ugly. It’s uglier than you think.” The line of his mouth hardens a little. “Just let me take this one. Write about it when it’s done.”

“Frank, you know that’s not going to happen.” 

“Just this one,” he asks. “Please.”

Karen can tell he’s being as sincere as possible, but she still shakes her head. “I can’t do that.” 

Frank’s face goes blank as he nods slightly. “Alright. Stay out of my way then, yeah?”

“I don’t think we’re likely to overlap too much.” 

“You’re wrong about that one,” Frank says. He leans out of the doorway, looking up and down the street. “If you’re onto this story, overlap’s already a kinda foregone conclusion.”

“Some of us still prefer to contact the authorities, Frank.” 

“Once you put it all together, I don’t think you will,” Frank says. He steps out onto the sidewalk and gives her a nod. 

“So infuriating!” Karen whispers after she’s almost sure Frank is out of earshot. On the off chance that Matt is nearby, she waits a few more seconds, then adds, “You too!” 

After another thirty seconds pass, Karen decides to go back the way she came, then call a cab to get her home. The cabbie complains about the short fare, but Karen tips him and hurries inside to her apartment. She hadn’t really thought her feeling of being followed was related to the story she was investigating, but the more she turns over the idea in her mind, the more it makes sense. 

She thinks about being tailed and what it might mean for far longer than necessary, because she doesn’t want to think about what Frank, of all people, would consider ugly. Whenever her thoughts drift towards that, she shakes her head physically, as if she can redirect her thoughts through kinetic energy. She also doesn’t want to think about the fact that despite Frank more or less admitting he was planning to murder the perps, she doesn’t want to go to the cops and let them know that Frank Castle has a plan. 

Karen doesn’t want to think about any of that, or about the fact that she found Frank almost comforting while he was holding her, so she re-reads her notes and then goes to bed, her pillow over her head and not blocking out any of her own thoughts. 

 

Three days pass. Three days where Karen dodges the man she is now thinking of as her tail, while still investigating the disappearances of the girls to the best of her ability. She’s pretty sure she sees Frank from a distance at least four times, but he doesn’t approach her, and she decides not to approach him. Karen isn’t interested in a lecture about why she shouldn’t continue investigating the story. Someone has to investigate, since most of the media isn’t, and the police seem to be making almost negative progress on the cases. One girl’s family was told that they had a sighting and a lead, only to be told twelve hours later that there had been no sighting, no lead, and the officer who had told them that had been reassigned to a precinct on Staten Island. 

While Karen’s eating dinner on the third day, she looks back over her notes, trying to find any pattern. Her soup is getting cold as she looks at the disappearance details, and a little bit of it splashes when she jumps. “Tonight!” she says out loud to her otherwise empty apartment. “If the pattern holds, tonight!” 

She leaves the soup on the table and scrambles back into her shoes, checking the time on her phone. If she’s right, she has forty-five minutes to get herself in a position to see what is happening. The taxi gets her around the corner from the right spot, and she hauls herself up the fire escapes to find a likely vantage point. 

Somehow, though, she’s unsurprised when she sees an admittedly familiar-shaped shadow on the next building over. “Hello, Frank,” she whispers under her breath. Nothing happens for about twenty-five more minutes, and then a car drives up the block before stopping and idling. Karen makes a note of the time, writing on her notepad in the dark and hoping she can read the information later. When she glances to the next building, Frank is no longer visible, but Karen doesn’t assume that means he’s gone. 

The back door to the car opens, and a guy who looks around twenty-five gets out first, then he half-helps, half-jerks a young girl out of the car. Karen has enough data floating in her head, enough pictures of missing girls, that she immediately pegs the girl as fourteen or fifteen, despite the fact that she’s dressed like she’s trying to be older. The girl is stumbling and seems out of it, and Karen wishes she could see her face clearly, especially her eyes. She can guess at what she’d see. 

The girl is just clear of the back of the car when a shot is fired, and Karen registers a few seconds later that it went cleanly through the driver’s window and the driver’s head, and the driver is now slumped to the side, car still idling. The guy who got out of the car jumps and crouches down almost immediately, but the girl doesn’t react, confirming for Karen that she’s been drugged in some way. 

No more shots come, and Karen stays as still as she can. The guy on the ground seems to regain some confidence, and he straightens, pulling the drugged girl with him down the street and towards a door in what Karen had thought was likely an empty building. The door starts to swing shut behind them, and a moment later, a hand stops it from closing completely. 

“Frank,” Karen says softly, then stands and walks towards the fire escape. Frank goes into the building, and Karen isn’t even completely sure why she feels the need to follow him following the guy and the girl. By the time she reaches the ground, she can hear distant sirens, and since there’s a body in an idling car nearby, she hurries to the door Frank went through. 

The building is dark, and there are multiple doors off the main corridor, but Karen can see that most of the doors aren’t disturbed, so she walks quietly down the corridor, straining for sound or light near her. She nearly bumps into Frank, as still as he is, his breath barely making noise. Frank gestures for her to get down, and she squats immediately, even as she feels a little annoyed. 

“Where?” she mouths more than says. 

“Get outa here,” Frank mouths back at her, wearing his default murderously-angry face. “Go.”

Karen makes what she hopes is her best stubborn face and shakes her head vigorously. “No.” 

Frank huffs out a barely audible breath, eyes rolling skyward. “Goddammit, woman. Can’t you just do what you’re told for once in your life?”

“No,” Karen hisses. “I am constitutionally unable.” 

“Stay here, yeah?” he says, now visibly grinding his teeth. “You’re gonna get us both killed.”

“I’m more concerned about the drugged girl not being killed!” 

“I’m not gonna hurt that girl!” Frank says. He looks even more murderous, somehow, his mouth a thin, pale line. 

“Not you, the other guy!” 

“Tell me you’ll stay here, and I can go take care of that guy!”

“I’ll do what I think is best,” Karen says. “That’s all I can promise.” 

Frank might not have any teeth left, the way he keeps grinding them. “You’re as bad as that do-gooder lawyer boyfriend of yours,” he says. “Just stay out of the line of fire.” 

“Not my boyfriend!” Karen says, feeling the need to clarify that as quickly as possible. Frank doesn’t acknowledge her response as he starts walking down the hall, and Karen suppresses the urge to grind her own teeth. 

Karen hears nothing for what feels like at least ten minutes. She knows it’s probably closer to a single minute, but the longer the silence stretches, the more she worries about the girl and, a little bit, about Frank. She’s already considering getting up to follow Frank, despite his concerns, when she hears a shot. She knows she’s not a ballistics expert, but the gun sounds different than Frank’s, and she immediately pushes herself back to a standing position, heading down the hall as rapidly as she dares. 

Another gunshot is helpfully fired as she goes, which lets her find Frank, the girl, and the guy all. She rounds the corner and looks to the girl first. She’s still standing, looking drugged, but a cursory scan doesn’t suggest that she’s been shot. A moment later, however, another figure enters the room, and before Karen can do much more than decide it’s a man, not a woman, Frank dives in her direction, grabbing her and tucking her against his chest as the new man in the room creates what sounds like a third distinct gunshot noise. 

Frank lets out a soft grunt as they hit the ground together. His left arm keeps Karen pressed against his stupid Punisher vest, her face against the kevlar, as he pulls another gun from some hidden holster, shooting at the new guy. One, two, three shots hit the man center mass, and he falls to his knees in what feels like slow motion before falling to the side with a muffled thud. Through it all, the girl remains standing, looking more confused than frightened by the commotion around her. 

“Shit,” Frank says softly, the arm around Karen going slack. 

“Frank?” Karen asks, then when the arm doesn’t tighten again, she begins to feel the first tendrils of panic. “Frank!” 

“The girl,” Frank says. 

“She’s fine,” Karen says, but she starts to pull away from Frank as best she can, thinking that she’ll get to the girl, and at least get her sitting down. When she looks down at Frank, though, she realizes he’s gone utterly pale. “Frank! What happened?” 

Frank shakes his head mutely, then jerks it in the direction of the girl. When he moves, Karen suddenly can see the blood on the lower part of his shirt, and she wants to curse. Instead, she sends up a silent prayer to a God she may not believe in, and looks between Frank’s back and the girl several times. 

“We’re going to get out of here in just a minute,” Karen tells Frank, before dashing over to the girl and leading her out of the room, out of sight of the bodies. Karen finds the girl’s own cell phone on her, turned off, and after it turns on, she dials 911 and leaves the phone next to the girl, sitting in the hallway. 

When Karen returns to Frank, the blood has spread over more of his back, and somehow, Karen hauls him up over her shoulder. “Okay, we’re going to get you taken care of,” Karen says firmly. 

“Jus’ get the girl,” Frank slurs. “Get ‘er outa here.”

“You’re bleeding. We’re going to get _you_ out of here.” 

“‘M fine,” Frank says. 

“You aren’t fine until I say you’re fine,” Karen says. “Let’s go.”


	2. Right and Wrong and Bullets and Blood

Karen is half-dragging and half-carrying Frank down an alley when she starts pulling out her phone. She hates to call Matt, of all people, about Frank, of all people, but it’s the only option she can come up with in the moment, so she presses the picture of Matt on her screen and waits for him to answer. 

“Hello? Karen?” Matt answers, his voice soft and low-pitched like it is when he’s Daredevil-ing.

“I need to know the name of the person you have. Doctor? Whatever,” Karen says, her voice rushed and not at all low-pitched. 

“Are you hurt? Where are you?” Matt asks. “I’ll come to where you are.”

“Not me. I just need a name and a number,” Karen says. 

“Who’s hurt? Karen, talk to me!”

“A… friend,” Karen says. “I was investigating a story. If you want to help, there’s a very confused girl in an empty warehouse.” 

Matt sighs. “Claire. Her name is Claire. I’ll send you her contact information. Where’s the warehouse?”

“Thank you, Matt,” Karen says, then rattles off the address of the warehouse. After the call ends, a text comes through with a number, and Karen immediately calls it. 

A woman with a slightly husky voice answers. “Hello?”

“Hello, Claire? My name’s Karen, and I got your information from Matt,” Karen says as quickly as she can. “I’d say I’m sorry to call, but that goes without saying.” 

Claire lets out a protracted sigh. “You’re another one of them?”

“Them?” Karen asks blankly. “I have a friend who’s been shot.” 

“Are they conscious?” Claire asks, her tone immediately turning crisp and professional. 

“In and out,” Karen says. “He was wearing a vest, but I think it got under the bottom of it.” 

“I’m guessing hospital is out of the question?”

“I think he’d at a minimum be very angry with me later, yeah,” Karen says. “Plus it’d be bad for my byline.” 

“Right,” Claire says. “Where are you?”

“Dirty alleyway, but I’m heading towards my apartment,” Karen says, giving her the address. 

“Do you have a car?” Claire asks, but she doesn’t sound particularly hopeful, and Karen can hear keys jingling in the background. 

“No, I do not have a car! I have someone with a bullet wound.” 

Claire sighs again, followed by the sound of a car door closing. “I’m on my way.”

“Hopefully we’ll make it there first,” Karen says, hefting Frank forward a few more feet. Frank rouses a little and tries to shove himself off of her.

“I can walk,” he says. “Lemme walk.”

“So you can bleed out?” Karen says. “Sure, show me how you can walk on your own.” 

Frank, true to his word, tries to take a step, but his left leg immediately gives way under him. “Shit,” he mutters, as Karen sighs and reaches for him, hauling him back across her shoulders. 

“Let your stupid ass walk, huh?” 

“Just get me back to my place,” Frank says. “I got—” He breaks off abruptly, sagging against Karen. 

“You ‘got’ to get help,” Karen says, her voice a little softer. “My apartment’s close.” Frank doesn’t argue with her again, but his weight is heavy enough that they reach the stairs to Karen’s building at the same time a catering van pulls up. 

The passenger side window rolls down, and a pretty, dark-haired woman calls out, “Are you Karen?”

“Yes,” Karen says, feeling a little confused. “Catering?” 

“Don’t ask,” the woman—Claire, presumably—says. “Where did he—holy shit! Is that the Punisher?” Claire cranes her neck to get a better look at Frank, one hand dipping down between the driver and passenger seats, out of Karen’s line of sight. 

“Well, when he’s not shot, yes,” Karen says. “Right now he’s mostly unconscious and a little bit whiny.” 

“You said you were Matt’s friend,” Claire says, her tone and expression both somewhat accusatory. 

“I was the secretary,” Karen says. “When they had their own firm.” 

Claire gets out of the catering truck and walks around the front to Karen. She now has some kind of metal claw-contraption dangling from one hand. “Vigilante heroes, that’s one thing, but this guy?” She gestures at Frank with the claws. “He’s a _bad_ guy. He kills people.”

“You’ve heard about the girls that keep disappearing? The guys that are taking them are the ones that shot him,” Karen says. “I know what you’re saying, but this time… he was doing the right thing, tonight.” 

Claire sighs the same put-upon sigh from the phone, then tosses the claw-thing through the window into the passenger seat. “My mom’s best friend’s granddaughter is one of those girls,” she says. “Shit. Fine. Okay, help me get him in the back. I’ll… we’ll worry about the good guy, bad guy thing later.” 

“Okay,” Karen says, feeling some relief at Claire’s willingness to help. “He can’t walk on his own, even when he’s conscious.” 

“Just give me a second,” Claire says. She opens the back doors of the van. The interior looks more like the inside of an ambulance than it does any kind of delivery or catering truck Karen has ever seen. With quick, precise movements, Claire rolls out an adjustable gurney, and then steps to Frank’s other side to help Karen lift him onto it. “Try to get him on his side so I can look at the wound.”

Karen nods and follows Claire’s instructions to the best of her ability, though all of the blood, equipment, and medical jargon remind Karen why nursing school was never a choice she entertained. “Do you need anything from my apartment? Fresh water?” 

A set of keys flies through the air towards Karen, who manages to impress herself and catch them. “You drive,” Claire says, rolling the gurney into the back of the van. “He needs attention _now_.”

“Where am I driving?” Karen calls as she climbs into the driver’s seat.

“Harlem. Take Amsterdam up,” Claire says. “Now. Go now. Be quick.”

Karen speeds up Amsterdam faster than might be advisable under normal circumstances, and she has the absurd thought that if a cop were to stop her, she’d tell him there was a catering emergency in Harlem. She can hear Claire moving in the back, and Frank groans occasionally, but she forces herself to focus on the task she can actually control: getting to Harlem as fast as possible. 

“Now where?” Karen asks as they draw closer to Harlem. 

“119th and Lenox.”

Karen nods, then realizes Claire can’t see her. “Got it!” she says out loud, scanning the signs around her. “What am I looking for there?” 

“It’s facing Lenox. Looks like a barbershop,” Claire says. “You can park around the corner.”

“It _looks_ like… you know what, nevermind,” Karen says. 

Frank lets out a few more groans, then one loud, shrill yell before going suddenly, disturbingly quiet. Karen wants to ask if he’s still alive, but Claire doesn’t seem to be panicking, so instead Karen parks in the empty spot on the side near Pop’s Barber Shop. 

“We’re here,” Karen says, probably unnecessarily. 

“Come around and help me get him out,” Claire says. “Time is _not_ our friend right now.”

Karen nods and jumps out, opening both of the doors. Frank has an IV in, and a few bandages, but she decides it’s more important to get him out of the van and into the barbershop than to ask too many questions. Claire rolls the gurney out and gestures at the van’s doors with her head as if instructing Karen to shut them behind her. Karen does, and then decides to lock up the catering van for good measure, before following Claire and the rolling gurney into Pop’s. 

“I just want to state for the record that this guy _really_ needs a hospital,” Claire says. She has on long blue latex gloves which are already liberally covered with Frank’s blood. “I’m not a surgeon.” Frank stirs on the gurney, grunting what sounds like a protest. Claire makes a noise that manages to perfectly straddle the line between annoyance and disgust. “Yeah, tough guy, I know. No hospitals. Not my first time here.”

“He’s cranky even when he’s not bleeding,” Karen says. 

“What’s your blood type?” Claire asks unceremoniously as she starts cutting away Frank’s stupid vest with a pair of scary-large scissors. She frowns, her attention on the blood-soaked gauze pads over the bullet wound. 

“O, but positive,” Karen says. 

“You know his?”

Karen shakes her head. “No clue.” 

Claire pats the side of Frank’s face. “Hey. Hey, Punisher. Come on, eyes open.”

“Frank,” Karen says. 

Claire eye-rolls impressively as she smacks against Frank’s cheek a little harder. “Frank. Hey, open your eyes and look at me.” Frank’s eyes open slightly. “Good. Blood type?”

“B positive,” Frank mumbles.

“God knows, I try,” Claire says, turning to Karen. “You, sleeve up. That cabinet there.” She nods her head towards one of sets of drawers between what would, in a normal barber shop, be the first and second chair, but which now seem to be the first and second spot for gurneys. “There’ll be a bag with tubing attached. You ever donated blood before?”

“Blood drives,” Karen says. “Never met the recipients or anything.” 

“Not relevant. The bag will look like the bags you’ve seen at Red Cross,” Claire says. “Bring me one, then roll one of those chairs over.”

Karen nods, deciding with a quick glance at Frank that two bags might be better, just in case. She rolls the chair over, pushing her sleeve up. “Okay. Bags, chair, arm.” 

“Good. Okay, Frank, try not to die while I get your friend hooked up here,” Claire instructs a still mostly-unconscious Frank. She moves around the gurney to Karen and starts preparing her arm for the needle. Karen barely feels the needle sliding into her arm, which speaks to Claire’s skill and steady hands, and within two or three minutes, Claire has a whole network of tubes set up, putting both IV fluids and Karen’s blood into Frank. 

“He’s far more obedient like this,” Karen remarks. 

“Aren’t they all,” Claire says, her tone whimsical. She returns to Frank’s back, her brows furrowing as she gently prods at the wound. “I can’t take this bullet out. It’s right against his spine. He needs real surgical care.”

Karen sighs. “I don’t really know what to say. I assume he doesn’t want that risk, no matter how the surgical care is obtained, but it’s not like he and I have had many conversations about it.” 

“I can clean it out, dress it, and do my best to get the inflammation down, but after that, it’s a crapshoot,” Claire says. “He could have pain, paralysis. This isn’t something I can fix here. I’m set up for stitches and concussions, not spinal injuries.”

“Will he wake up and be mostly lucid after you do those things?” 

“Honestly?” Claire says, shrugging. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Karen sighs again. “Let’s hope he’s lucid and he can make some decisions for himself after that.” 

“He’s going to be in a lot of pain when he comes to. Do you know if he has any drug allergies? I can start some antibiotics and pain management with the IV.”

“No idea. Assume he doesn’t, I guess.” 

Claire turns her attention back to Frank, who seems to be getting a little of his color back from the blood transfusion, at least. As she works, she occasionally glances up at Karen, shakes her head slightly, then looks down again. In general, she gives Karen the impression of someone who wants to ask questions, but isn’t sure she really wants the answers, a sentiment that Karen knows all too well. 

After the fourth glance, Karen shakes her head a little. “Just ask.” 

“You seem like a nice person. How’d you get mixed up with this?” Claire asks. “You said you were Matt’s secretary?”

“I was, yeah,” Karen says slowly. “Matt and Foggy. Then after Ben was killed, I took his job. Investigative reporting.” 

“But the Punisher? I know Matt’s firm represented him, but…” Claire sighs and shakes her head. “I guess I don’t really know Matt that well, not outside of his vigilante stuff.”

“I didn’t know the vigilante stuff,” Karen says, knowing her smile is a little too sharp. 

“Saint Matthew and his women, huh?” Claire says bitterly. 

“The lies add up after awhile,” Karen says as she nods. 

Claire abruptly leans over Frank’s body and flips a little clip on the tubing hanging from Karen’s arm. “That’s enough from you. Won’t do anybody any good if you’re passing out, too.” 

“Frank or I wouldn’t notice, really,” Karen says wryly. 

“Here,” Claire says, handing Karen an unopened package of gauze. “Open that, press it against your arm there.” She points to where the needle is buried in the crook of Karen’s arm. “Firm pressure, then lean forward.” When Karen has applied the gauze and leans, Claire slides the needle out of her. “Keep that pressure on there for now, okay?”

Karen nods. “Okay.” 

“So, you know the— _Frank_ through work?” Claire asks. She opens several more packages similar to the one she handed Karen and does something to Frank’s back with the gauze. 

“More or less, yes.” 

“How’d you get into investigative reporting? Kind of a big leap from being Daredevil’s secretary.”

“A man named Ben Urich, actually,” Karen says. 

“I know that name. The reporter, right?” Claire says. She doesn’t look up from Frank’s back as she talks. “He died a couple of years ago?”

“Yeah,” Karen says softly. “I took his job, technically.” 

Claire nods faintly. “Did you know him well?”

“Well enough. I like to think I’ve made the job my own by now, but it’s hard to evaluate your own impact in the moment.” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Claire says. “I feel like I never know how much anything I do matters anymore. I was at Metro-General for almost fifteen years, and that didn’t turn out to matter too much once the ninjas got involved, but slide a needle down a guy’s optic nerve _one time_ …” She laughs a little. “I’m constantly reevaluating what I’m doing, what I _should_ be doing, and this?” She lifts her eyebrows and nods her head down towards Frank’s back. “Not really helping in the ‘knowing what I should be doing’ department.”

Karen nods. “I know exactly what you mean. I shouldn’t really care what happens to him, but at the same time, I do.” 

“You’re singing my song,” Claire says. She straightens and starts removing the blood-stained gloves. “Okay, that’s all I can do for now. I’ll keep him here a while, see if we can get the swelling down. I want to say one more time that I _really_ think you need to bring him to a hospital, even if it means prison time.”

“I don’t think I’d look that good in orange,” Karen says. “And as much as I’d like to think I wouldn’t be charged, can either of us really say that’s certain?” 

“They’d probably turn you into some anti-vigilante object lesson,” Claire agrees. 

“They’d find my senior yearbook picture—or someone’s picture who looks vaguely like me—and run it side by side with my mug shot. To show how they dragged me down.” 

“Oh, how the pure and innocent have fallen!” Claire says, with an adequately dramatic tone. “Another life ruined by vigilante justice.”

“I’ll have to get a haircut before my mug shot, to make it _really_ effective,” Karen says mock-brightly. 

“That is _all_ you,” Claire says. 

Karen laughs, almost in spite of herself. “Blood is fine, but not hair?” 

“I’m just saying I’m as invested in this whole hero business as I ever plan to be, and a hair cut for that cause is _not_ on the table,” Claire says. 

Suddenly, a deep voice comes from the back room of the barber shop. “Babe? I woke up and you were gone.” A large man fills up the doorway, and Karen immediately recognizes him from the news as Harlem’s less-angsty version of Daredevil, Luke Cage. “Oh. Hello, random white lady bleeding in my barbershop.”

“Oh, it’s probably not mine,” Karen says quickly. “Karen. Nice to meet you.” 

“Luke,” Luke says, tentatively offering her his hand to shake.

“Matt gave her my number,” Claire says. She sounds long-suffering, like this isn’t the first time she and Luke have discussed Matt Murdock.

“I see,” Luke says. He looks at Frank, who is still passed out on the gurney, rolled more or less onto his face. “The Punisher? Babe, I thought we just did heroes.”

“My sources say he was acting in a heroic capacity,” Claire says, gesturing at Karen. 

“The kidnapped girls,” Karen supplies. “The perps did this.” 

“Carmen’s granddaughter?” Luke asks Claire, who nods. “Well, good for him, then. Anything I can do to help?”

Karen shakes her head. “I don’t think the cops would be as understanding, is all.” 

“Once I’m done down here, I’ll fill you in on everything, and you can call Danny and get the team on it,” Claire says. 

“Danny?” Karen says. “Another not-really-a-barber?” 

“Oh, he is definitely not a barber,” Claire says. “Really not sure he has any normal-person skills at all, come to think of it.”

“Sure you don’t want me to sit down here with you?” Luke asks. 

“He’s unconscious. I think we’re fine,” Claire says. “If he tries anything, I’ll give him a hand strike to the bullet wound, I promise.”

“Mmhmm,” Luke says, moving close to Claire and kissing the top of her hair. 

“I was taking care of myself just fine before all the devils and ninjas and superguys came along, is all I’m saying,” Claire says.

“Yeah, I know you were,” Luke says. Karen looks away from the two of them, though the only other thing in the room is more or less Frank on the gurney. After a few seconds of what is probably kissing, Luke says, “Nice to meet you, Karen. Good luck with your, uh…”

“Frank,” Claire says.

“Your Frank,” Luke says. “Don’t forget to lock up when you’re done down here, babe.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m the one who leaves things unlocked,” Claire mutters as Luke disappears into the backroom again. Karen can hear him walking up a flight of stairs, a door closing loudly behind him. 

“So… if you know superheroes… do you have Cap’s number? Is he single?” Karen pauses. “Is he _gay_?” 

“What?” Claire says, looking at Karen like she’s lost her mind. “No.”

“No, he’s not gay?” 

“No, I don’t have his number!”

“So he may in fact be dating a man,” Karen says, nodding a little sadly. “That’s something. He should be happy.” 

“What? Just, _what_?” Claire asks. “How does your mind even work? How does your brain decide what words are going to come out of your mouth?”

“I did go through a trauma tonight, before giving blood,” Karen says. “Did I tell you that Frank was shielding me when he got shot?” 

“Uh-uh, don’t give the big, sad blue-eyed, innocent white girl act,” Claire says, shaking a finger at Karen. “I’ve got your number. I know exactly what type you consort with.”

“I told you, he was shielding me!”

“Ohhh no. I’m talking about Matthew Murdock and you know it, Miss ‘I Went Through a Trauma’,” Claire says. 

“Matt could qualify as a trauma unto himself,” Karen points out. 

“I’m pretty sure he does,” Claire agrees. 

“I could blame everything on him, maybe!” 

“Lord knows I’ve taken that route on occasion!”

The two of them are laughing, and Karen thinks that finally she’s found someone in this world of superheroes that she can relate to a little. Maybe she can help Claire help the heroes by passing on information from stories or something. She doesn’t have time to mention the idea to Claire, though, before Frank interrupts. 

“Can’t move my leg,” Frank says, followed by a groan as he apparently attempts, again, to move his leg. 

“Don’t try to move your leg!” Claire says, stepping back over to Frank’s side.

“I _can’t_ ,” Frank says. His face looks pale again, and he looks scared. “I can’t feel it. I can’t feel shit.”

“You have a bullet lodged next to your spine,” Claire explains. “Your friend brought you to me. I can’t take the bullet out, because I’m a nurse, not a surgeon.”

“She’s a really good nurse, Frank,” Karen says. “And no cops involved.” 

“I need to get out of here,” Frank mumbles. “The girl, I gotta get the girl.” Even with Claire’s hand now resting on his arm, he tries to force himself up into a seated position.

“Whoa. You’re not going anywhere. You need to be _still_ ,” Claire says, trying—and mostly succeeding—to keep him pinned against the gurney.

“She’s fine, Frank,” Karen says in what she hopes is a soothing voice. “The girl is fine. We can even find the news report, I bet.” 

“Gotta get home, yeah? Gotta take care of Karen,” Franks says, still struggling. 

“Karen’s fine,” Claire says in a soothing, reassuring voice. “She’s right here.”

Karen sighs. “He has a dog named Karen.” 

“He named his dog after you?” Claire asks, then she says, in a sharper tone, to Frank, “Hey! I just got you all patched up. If you keep flinging yourself around like that, you’re gonna mess up my good work. Now be still, and let me explain what’s happening, do you understand?”

Frank immediately stills, and some color comes back into his face, and the contrition on his face makes him look like a little boy who just got scolded by his teacher. “Yes, ma’am,” he says meekly. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Good,” Claire says. As she starts talking to Frank about swelling and the compression of his spinal column, Karen’s eyes gloss over. She catches the gist of it—rest, ice, anti-inflammatories, sensation and control might return as his body heals—but mostly she watches Frank’s face as he listens to Claire. 

Frank looks like he comprehends a little more than Karen does, but she’s not sure how he feels about what he understands. She supposes that she _does_ understand that: Frank doesn’t know who Claire is or how he got there, which is even less than Karen knows. Still, Karen knows enough to see that Frank is a little bit worried by what Claire’s telling him. 

“But it’ll come back?” Frank asks. 

“It _might_ come back,” Claire says. “Cautious optimism. The reality is, you still have a piece of metal pressing against your spine, and until you find someone with actual surgical training to take it out, it’s all a big crapshoot.”

“I can stay awake with him if you want to get some sleep,” Karen offers when it appears that Frank isn’t going to say much else. 

“You sure? You could probably use some rest yourself,” Claire says. 

“I’ll be okay,” Karen says. “I keep strange hours.” 

“Okay,” Claire says. “I’ll be just upstairs. You have my number if anything changes.” She walks to the front of the shop and flips the lock before giving Karen a nod of solidarity and heading into the back room to go upstairs. 

Frank lies silently on the gurney for a while, staring off into the distance with unfocused eyes. After several long minutes, he sighs softly.

“Where’d you find the nurse?” Frank asks. 

“I called someone and got a number,” Karen says evasively. 

“There some kinda vigilante hotline now?” Frank says. His left leg keeps jerking slightly, like he’s still trying in vain to move it. 

“You’d know about that, right?” Karen says. “You’re the vigilante in this room.” 

“Ain’t the only one,” Frank mutters under his breath, jerking his leg again. 

“Stop that!” Karen says sharply, ignoring his actual comment. 

Frank lets out an annoyed huff. “Not doing anything.”

“Stop _trying_ to do something, then.” 

“Sure thing, boss,” Frank says, jerking his leg again. 

Karen stands up and carefully presses down on Frank’s leg to hold it still. “I’m going to have to interrupt Claire and Luke and ask if she has restraints, Frank, and that’s just not a nice thing to do after she stitched you back up.” 

“Shoulda just left me there, yeah?” 

“I want you to look at my face right now,” Karen says, exaggeratedly rolling her eyes. 

“Yeah, we all want stuff,” Frank says, in the same under-the-breath mutter. 

“Oh yeah? What do you want?” 

Frank huffs again. “Nothing much. Working leg. My dog.”

“Can’t do anything about the leg,” Karen says as indifferently as she can. “I can go check on your dog in the morning.” 

“Planning on leaving me here all by myself?” Frank asks. He sounds like he’s trying to sound like he’s joking, but something in the pitch of his voice and the way his eyes squint a little at the corners makes Karen suspect he really is a little afraid of the prospect of being left in the barbershop-turned-clinic alone. 

“In the morning, Frank, after Claire’s awake and around. You can meet her… boyfriend? I think?” Karen says. 

“Bet they’re both real happy to have me here too, yeah? Gonna be a real warm meeting.”

“They know one of the girls that’s missing,” Karen says. 

Frank’s face goes still, then the fight goes out of him, his expression and body both sagging. “Not the one we got tonight, though?” 

Karen shakes her head. “No, not her. One of the others.” 

“How’m I supposed to find the other ones if I can’t move my damn leg?” Frank asks. He balls up on fist and brings it down hard on the gurney. “Who’s gonna find ‘em? _Red?_ ‘Cause he ain’t getting the job done lately.”

Karen is quiet for a few moments, thinking, because she doesn’t exactly think Frank is wrong. Matt really isn’t the person for the job. “Would you be willing to share what you know with Luke?” she finally asks. “Just so someone’s working on it for the next day or two?” 

“Who’s Luke? How’m I supposed to trust something like this to a guy I don’t know from a hole in the ground?” Frank asks. 

“Luke Cage? Surely you read the headlines enough to know who he is.” 

“Another do-gooder who can’t get the job done,” Frank says dismissively. 

“You can clean up after him,” Karen offers, mentally wincing. 

“Yeah?” Frank asks, propping himself up a little on one arm. “How do I clean up after him? I can’t stand. I can’t walk. Your nurse friend tell you something I didn’t hear about how this is all gonna pass in a few days?”

“You can’t make plans for more than a day or two in the future right now, Frank! That’s all I’m saying!” 

“But I need to make plans now. Those girls? They need me out there,” Frank says. “They need somebody who can get the job done. The whole job, done the right way. They need me to _end_ this!” 

“What they need in the next day or two is to get home, and you know it,” Karen says, staring down at Frank. “We can argue about the rest of it later.” 

“Don’t know why I ever try to talk sense to you. You’re impossible,” Frank says. 

“Because you know you’re going to lose, because I’m right.” 

“I liked you better when you were trying to save me from my wicked ways,” Frank grumbles. He rests his head against the gurney again, eyelids drooping. “Now you’re almost as bad as me.”

“Get some rest, Frank,” Karen says, shaking her head. 

“I can rest when I’m dead,” Frank says, his voice trailing off. 

“If you don’t rest, you will be.”

“Yeah,” Frank says agreeably. He already looks asleep. 

Karen watches him for a few minutes, then sits back. “I don’t think anyone would think less of me for saying you’re a lot easier to sit with when you’re sleeping,” she says out loud into the quiet room. Frank doesn’t stir, and Karen shakes her head. “I guess it’s good I always have my phone and a charger. I can catch up on some reading while you sleep.” 

She almost inevitably succumbs and dozes for short spurts as the night passes and Frank sleeps. Karen wakes up from one of those times as she hears Claire coming back in the morning, and she has just enough time to yawn and stretch before picking her phone back up. 

“How’s our new favorite vigilante doing this morning?” Claire asks, a little too chipper for the hour, as far as Karen’s concerned. 

“Ma’am, I hate to be rude,” Frank says, pitching his voice low, “but I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

“I’m guessing you wouldn’t take too kindly to me suggesting Luke come down and carry you,” Claire says. Frank must give her a look that agrees with her assessment, because she quickly says, “Right. I have a wheelchair. You might still need some help.”

“Get me in the chair, and I’ll be able to manage,” Frank says. 

“Alright, I’ll go see if I can find it,” Claire says. “Morning, Karen,” she adds, as she passes by on the way to the back room. 

“Morning, Claire,” Karen says, then shakes her head at Frank. “You could have just asked for a bedpan.” Frank glares at her in response. 

“Coming right up,” Claire says. She catches Karen’s eyes over Frank’s head and makes a grumpy face. Karen shrugs and nods. After a couple of minutes, Claire wheels out a somewhat battered wheelchair. 

“That’ll work,” Frank says, trying to prop himself up, ostensibly to put himself into the wheelchair.

“Whoa,” Claire says. “This is at least a two person job right now, and since we’ve got three, let’s make the most of it.” She lowers the gurney so it’s on level with the chair. 

“He’s going to be so grumpy,” Karen mutters under her breath. 

“ _Going_ to be?” Claire responds quietly. She raises her voice a little. “Okay, Frank. Time to get you in this chair.”

“I can manage,” Frank insists.

“Hmm. How about no?” Claire says. “Karen, you get the other side. Frank, your job is to let me know if this hurts or something feels wrong, got it?”

“Yes ma’am,” Frank says. Somehow he makes it sound like he’s actually saying, “I’d rather stab myself in both eyes.”

“If you hadn’t put so much work into him,” Karen says as she gets into position, “I’d say let him try and fail.” 

“I don’t like wasting my time and effort,” Claire says. When she gives Karen a nod, they work together to slowly angle Frank into a seated position. Frank stifles a noise.

“Does it hurt?” Karen asks. 

“It’s fine,” Frank answers through gritted teeth. 

“Maybe you should give him more pain medication and a bedpan or a catheter,” Karen says innocently to Claire. “Since he can’t report on pain to you.” 

“I said, it’s _fine_ ,” Frank says. He starts scooting himself towards the chair.

“Take it easy, Frank,” Claire says. “Bullet. Spine. Remember?” She helps guide him into the chair. 

“Maybe he doesn’t,” Karen says, staring at Frank. “Maybe that’s why he’s being so stubborn.” 

“I got it. Can you point me to the damn bathroom already?” Frank says. 

“You’d think he wanted to die, good lord,” Karen says. “Fine, go hurt yourself, Frank.” 

“Through there. Door should be wide enough, but if not, I’ll call up for Luke to come carry you,” Claire says. 

Frank scowls at Claire, mutters a terse, “Much appreciated,” and then starts rolling himself—agonizingly slowly—towards the bathroom. 

Karen looks over at Claire with an eyebrow raised, shaking her head a little. Claire shrugs. After what feels like a very long time, Frank gets to the doorstop. He tries to roll over it, but the wheels keep catching and rocking him back. Karen walks over and gives the chair an extra push without saying anything, then walks back to Claire, deliberately not turning to see Frank’s reaction. 

Frank must finally make it to the bathroom, because a door slams shut in the back room. Claire’s face has a pained, but sympathetic, look on it.

“That’s going to be a hard adjustment,” she says. 

“I don’t know that you could ever say Frank’s _adjusted_ to any kind of change,” Karen says. “I almost hate to see how he acts out as a response, you know?” 

“I don’t think he’s going to be doing any of his…” Claire waves hers hand. “Punishing work. Not for a while.”

Karen shakes her head. “No. Probably not. I’m trying to convince him to at least tell someone what he knows about the kidnappings.” 

“He knows you know Matt, right?”

“He says Matt won’t do the job right.” 

“Do we define ‘right’ as ‘killing people’?” Claire asks. 

“Do we? No. Does Frank? Probably.” 

Claire shakes her head. “I guess the criminal element will rest a little easier, for now at least.”


	3. The Incredible Frank-ness of Being

“This place is a hovel,” Karen says for at least the eighth time. She’s been in some rundown apartment buildings in her time, thanks to her time with the lawyers and more for the paper, but Frank’s squatted-in apartment takes the cake. “It looks like a set piece for a Vietnam war movie, Frank.” 

“Yeah, well, feel free to make yourself comfortable or get out,” Frank says irritably. He’s gotten the hang of the wheelchair, and through some kind of divine providence—since it clearly couldn’t be just _luck_ —the power to the main apartment building seems to stay on consistently enough that they were able to get upstairs in the elevator. The power in Frank’s apartment is spottier, and the darkness and the fact that Karen-the-dog went a night and a day without walking doesn’t make it a particularly welcoming place. 

“As much as I’d like to call Spacemaids to come in, and as dearly as I’d love to see my apartment, you and I and Karen are stuck with this for a bit,” Karen points out. 

“I’ll try to clean up a little,” Frank says. “Not used to company, and Karen—dog Karen—couldn’t help it.” He wheels the chair, gritting his teeth the whole time, towards the dingy-looking kitchen, where he seems to be heading for a roll of paper towels on the counter. 

“Honestly, I think it was a hovel long before that night,” Karen says. “You’re a squatter, Frank.” 

“Little hard to get a lease, given my circumstances, yeah?” Frank says as he keeps rolling the chair into the kitchen. After a painfully long time, he manages to get the paper towels and then turn the chair back towards Karen. He’s white as a sheet. 

“Fake ID?” Karen says. “Good lord, go take a nap, would you?” She takes the paper towels from him and shakes her head. 

“I’m not like your buddy Red. I show _my_ face,” Frank grumbles. He doesn’t fight her for the paper towels, though, or argue about the nap. 

“An amazing coincidence, you could tell people,” Karen says, pulling off a few paper towels. “Nap, I said.” 

Frank gives her some kind of dark look, but all he says is, “Yes, ma’am,” before wheeling in the direction of a cot set up against in the darkest corner of the room. It has a thin pillow and a stack of what look like army blankets on it. Frank manages to get himself from the chair to the cot, lying down on his good side with his back to Karen. The back of his shirt has a dark, faintly shiny spot on it, suggesting he’s bleeding again. 

Karen sighs and pulls out her phone to text Claire. She’ll wait until Frank is asleep and then take a picture. Of course Frank would make himself start to bleed again. Of course he would make it all that much harder on Karen, Karen-the-dog, and Claire all. While Frank drifts off, Karen picks up some of the dog poop and discards it in a plastic bag, setting the bag in the hall. If another squatter objects, that’s not her problem. 

The water coming out of the tap is cold, like it always is, and Karen puts a pot on the hot plate. If she bothered to pick up the dog poop, she’d like it all to be gone, and the lack of cleaning supplies makes hot water and paper towels, along with elbow grease, her only options. 

“How did this happen?” Karen asks herself as she’s mopping up the last remnants of the hot water and setting the additional trash in the hall. “I was writing a story a few days ago.” She snaps a picture of Frank’s back and sends it to Claire. 

Claire’s return text comes pretty quickly: _Change the dressing, check the stitches, lmk._

Karen sighs. Of course Frank might’ve popped his stitches. She manages to change the dressing without Frank really stirring, which tells her he was tireder than he let on, and she’s relieved to see the stitches are holding. 

_Stitches still good_ she texts back to Claire. 

_Ok just keep an eye on it_ Claire responds, then, _Patient cooperating???_

 _Only when he’s asleep_ Karen sends back, which isn’t exactly true—he did take a nap—but is very true in spirit. 

_Girl we need to get better friends._

Karen laughs quietly. _At least I have his dog?_ Karen-the-dog must sense she’s being thought about, because she pads over to Karen for some petting. 

_Karens 2, Punishers 0_ , Claire texts. 

_Best softball game in Hell’s Kitchen!_

Karen sets her phone down and looks around Frank’s place yet again. The electricity is spotty, but she could probably set up a wifi hot spot and do some work, if Frank agrees to come with her after his nap. She could go while he sleeps, but part of her expects to return to him missing, only to find him bleeding and near death twelve hours after that. 

Frank sleeps for several hours, and Karen is reading when he sits up and changes his shirt without comment. He resettles himself into the wheelchair and rolls over to Karen, sitting there quietly until she acknowledges him. Karen-the-dog puts her head on his lap and gazes up at him adoringly while he pets her.

“Good nap?” Karen asks finally. 

“Yeah. That was a good call. Thanks,” Frank says, using a particularly polite voice. 

Karen puts her book down, feeling suspicious. “Did you want some food? I think it’s almost dinnertime.” 

Frank nods. “That’d be great.”

“I could order us one of those salads from the new place a few blocks over,” Karen says, feeling more and more suspicious. “The ones with the pizza toppings.” 

“Probably could use more vegetables, yeah?” Frank says. 

Karen wants to shake her head in confused disbelief. “Later I could go get my laptop, maybe,” she says, while Frank is so oddly agreeable. 

“I’m sure I’ll be just fine while you do that.”

“You and Karen could hang out in my lobby, a walk would be good for everyone.” 

Frank glances down at the chair. “Walk’d probably be good for Karen. Dog Karen, I mean.”

“We can pick up the salads on the way back,” Karen decides, standing up. 

“A’ight,” Frank says. “Her leash is over near her food bag.”

“Come on, Karen,” Karen says to the dog as she picks up the leash. “We’re going out!” 

Karen-the-dog wags her tail so hard her whole back end wiggles side to side. Frank doesn’t seem to have anything else to say as he wheels himself along behind both Karens out through the apartment door and into the still-mercifully-working elevator. 

“You must’ve had a very good nap,” Karen says when they’re over halfway to her apartment. 

“Hmm?” Frank says. 

“Your nap, it was restful?” 

“Oh. Yeah. Feeling a lot better now.”

“Hmm,” Karen says in an echo of Frank. She doesn’t really believe Frank, but she can’t figure out how to confront him over it. When they reach her building, she leaves Frank and Karen-the-dog in the lobby, then darts upstairs to gather her notes, some basic toiletries, a few pieces of clothing, and the all-important laptop and charger. She spends an extra couple of minutes walking through her apartment, making sure she doesn’t think of anything else, then chucks most of the contents of her fridge—takeout leftovers—into her trash can before tying up the bag and taking it with her. No need to add a nasty smell to her own apartment as a result of Frank’s injury. 

She tosses the trash into the disposal, then heads back to the lobby with her own bag, relieved to see Frank and Karen-the-dog are more or less where she left them. 

“Ready to get salad?” Karen asks. 

Frank must have been lost in thought, because he starts somewhat at her voice. “Yeah?”

“Pizza salad, remember?” 

“Oh yeah,” Frank says. “Sorry, was thinking.”

“I’ve heard that’s dangerous,” Karen says lightly, heading towards the door. “What about Karen? Was she thinking?” 

“Mostly she was licking the top of my boot.”

“Maybe she was considering a new career in… cobblery?” Karen guesses. 

“Maybe, yeah,” Frank says. 

“Hmm,” Karen says, beginning to feel like a broken record, and decides not to press any more while they head to the salad place. Frank and Karen-the-dog follow along beside her without additional conversation, and Karen almost hates to stop, given the silence has been rather pleasant. 

“Order first,” Karen says reluctantly as they approach the counter. Frank orders his salad with sausage and mushrooms, nothing fancy, and then wheels aside to wait for Karen to place her order. Karen waffles for a few moments, then settles on a supreme salad with added anchovies. The young boy working suggests a dog ‘salad’ for Karen-the-dog, and Karen nods to add that to their order as well. She’s not sure it will appeal more than the top of Frank’s boot, but it can’t hurt to offer it. 

An older black woman, there with a young man who might be her son or grandson, approaches Frank before Karen can intervene, and says, “Your service dog seems very sweet.”

“Thank you,” Frank says politely, focusing his attention on Karen-the-dog, who seems determined to get every possible bit of boot flavor out of the boot.

“Are you a veteran?” the woman asks him. 

Karen can feel her eyes widen, and she stares fixedly at Karen-the-dog as well. If Frank starts to say something that might scare the woman, maybe Karen can scream to distract her, or have a sneezing fit. Something loud and obnoxious. 

Frank just placidly answers, “Yes ma’am. Three tours.” Karen-the-dog lifts her head from Frank’s boot and gives the woman the dog version of a smile, completely with enthusiastically-wagging tail.

“Would it be alright if I pet her?” the woman asks, clearly not wanting to interfere with Frank’s ‘service’ dog’s work. Frank nods, and the woman gives Karen-the-dog a brief, but enthusiastic back patting. Karen-the-dog looks like she’s going to die from happiness. 

Their salads, including the dog ‘salad’, are ready then, and Karen puts the bag into Frank’s lap. “I’ll push, you rest and protect dinner,” Karen says. At first, Frank looks like he’s gearing up to argue, but then he just sighs and nods at her, gripping the bag as Karen starts to push the wheelchair. “Any other errands you wanted to run?” Karen asks. 

“Nah. We should go home and eat,” Frank says. 

“Karen probably is tired, with all of her licking and charming the public,” Karen says. 

“Yeah, she’s a real hard worker.”

Karen sighs. “It’s good _one_ of us puts people at ease.” 

“I’m sure you’re real charming, too, when you try,” Frank says. “Betcha don’t even have to lick somebody’s boots.”

“I like to ask probing questions,” Karen points out, “and most people don’t enjoy that.” 

“That’s why people don’t like me, too,” Frank says. 

“Frank, you shoot people. That’s why they don’t like _you_.” 

“I haven’t shot anybody in ages.”

“A whole three days, a true record,” Karen says dryly. “Try another one.” 

“Never shot anybody who didn’t deserve it,” Frank insists. 

“In theory, the law is supposed to decide that,” Karen says. “You and I both know that.” 

“Yeah, and you and I both know the law doesn’t always work. _Can’t_ always work, not like it oughta.”

“Murder is not my preferred version of criminal justice reform, Frank.” 

“And you think your way works better than mine?” Frank asks. He shakes his head. “We should eat first.”

“First?” Karen repeats, but Frank doesn’t say anything else the rest of the way back to his hovel. The elevator is still working, thankfully, and when they reach his apartment, the power is actually on. Karen plugs in her laptop and sits down with her salad. 

“Eat your pizza salad,” Karen says to Frank pointedly. 

“Yes ma’am.”

Frank eats his salad without any dressing or additional add-ons from the bag, and Karen puts Karen-the-dog’s not-really-a-salad in front of her before eating her own salad. The pizza salad concept isn’t a bad one, and the supreme is tasty enough, Karen decides. By the time she’s eaten her fill, Frank’s salad is a distant memory, his bowl completely empty, similar to Karen-the-dog’s. 

“Good?” Karen asks. Frank does a combo shrug-nod. “Well, you ate it, at least.” 

“Yeah. Thanks for that,” Frank said, which might have sounded sarcastic if he didn’t seem genuinely grateful for the meal. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“So…” Frank begins, but doesn’t continue.

“So?” Karen repeats.

“I’ve been thinking on something,” he says. “I want you to hear me out.”

“I’m not going to let you try to walk without the chair,” Karen says immediately. 

“I was hoping you could help with something. Something else.”

Karen looks at Frank skeptically. “With what?” 

“I can’t quit what I’m doing. Those girls are still out there. They still need help, and the cops still aren’t doing shit about it,” Frank says. 

“Yes, they do, and yes, that’s true,” Karen says slowly. 

“Obviously I can’t do all the stuff I could normally do, at least not right now.”

“Murder isn’t the only way to help those girls, Frank.” 

“Yeah, well, you believe in what I do, even if you don’t like it,” Frank says. “You know you do, or you’d’a turned me in by now. Hell, you know where I live. You could call ‘em right now. Not like I could run.”

“Believing you shouldn’t be locked up isn’t the same as believing in what you do,” Karen insists. 

“If what I’m doing is so wrong, shouldn’t I be locked up?” 

“There’s a difference between believing in something and tolerating it,” Karen says. “I tolerate it.” 

“Well, I need you to do a little bit more than tolerate it. I need you to help me,” Frank says.  
“I can’t carry all the gear. I can’t do all the set up. I need help.”

“You want me to be your murder Girl Friday?” Karen says incredulously. 

“Yes ma’am, I do.”

“I am no one’s Girl Friday!” 

“Woman Friday, then,” Frank offers. “I just need somebody with two legs that work. If you got another suggestion, I’m all ears, but right now, all I got is you.”

“I am not going to carry gear and set it up for you,” Karen insists. “Like some kind of bike messenger for crime.” 

“You can set it up and go before any crime ever happens.”

“I don’t want to be the secretary!” 

“I’m not asking you to be the secretary! You wanna do more? You can do more!” Frank says. 

“You just want me to lug things!” 

“I said if you wanna do more, you can do more,” Frank says. “You want me to teach you how to set it up? I can teach you to shoot it, too, if you want. I don’t like having to ask for your help, but I need help, and there’s nobody but you!”

Karen stares at Frank, throwing her hands up in the air after a few seconds. “Oh my God,” Karen says, feeling overwhelmed. 

“So we should go up to the roof, and I can walk you through everything,” Frank says. 

“How exactly are you going to get to the roof? Does the elevator go that high?” 

“If you can drag the chair up, I can get myself up.”

“Drag the…” Karen trails off and shakes her head. “Of course you can.” 

“And if you don’t mind grabbing that duffel over there.” Frank points to a black duffel in the corner, next to a stack of black cases. 

“Of course,” Karen repeats, this time with a sigh. “Right now, huh?” 

“Right now’s always the best time to start.”

“I cannot believe this,” Karen says, but she stands and picks up the duffel bag. 

Frank doesn’t offer any additional commentary as he wheels towards the door. Karen-the-dog perks up, but Frank says, “Stay,” and she lies back down, head on her front paws. 

“She doesn’t know at all, does she?” Karen asks as they head to the elevator and she presses the button for the top floor.

“She’s a good girl,” Frank says. “Dogs don’t judge.”

“And yet you still don’t let her come along.”

“It’s dangerous. Like you said, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand she could get hurt.”

Karen nods. “Fair enough.” The elevator stops at the top floor, and Karen drags the duffel bag out. 

“You go on up,” Frank says. “It’ll take me a minute.”

Karen hauls the duffel and the wheelchair up the stairs, picturing Frank maneuvering up the stairs the same way a toddler would, on his butt moving backwards. She can’t quite picture Frank as a toddler, though, and her attempt to do so just results in her imagining a toddler with Frank’s grumpy expression. She laughs at that mental image as she drags herself and her baggage through the door onto the roof.

Frank doesn’t make it up the stairs for a good ten minutes, and when he finally does appear—on hands and knee like he crawled up—he’s pale and covered in sweat. He grabs ahold of the chair and pulls himself into it, unsuccessfully stifling a groan. After briefly closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to compose himself, he looks up at Karen.

“Well?” Frank asks. “You ready to get started?”

“No? Not really,” Karen admits, “but let’s go.” 

The next few hours, lasting as the sun sets and the streetlights come on, make Karen feel like she is the training montage of an 80s karate movie. There’s a lot of guns instead of a lot of kicks and punches, and Frank generally doesn’t dispense pithy wisdom via cryptic phrases. The guns have their own care and keeping, and Karen begins to feel like Frank has many pets, not just Karen-the-dog. 

“After that, it’s just a matter of practice,” Frank says finally. “You get the muscle memory, you can do it in your sleep, just about.”

“I’m not going to shoot people in my sleep, Frank,” Karen says. “What would that even be called? Sleepshooting?” 

“In Afghanistan, we called that just another Monday.”

“Frank, that doesn’t make any sense.” 

Frank looks a little sheepish. “I may’ve taken one of those pain pills the superhero doc gave me.”

“We did all of that while you were functionally stoned?” Karen asks incredulously. 

Frank shrugs. “Like I said. Muscle memory.” He gives her half a smile, which is how she _knows_ he’s stoned. “You wanna give it a try?”

“The drugs?” Karen says, purposely obtusely. “No, I’ll pass.” 

“Shooting. It’s not that hard,” Frank says. “Here, help me get this one up on the stand, since I can’t get down low with it.” He gestures at one of the larger guns and then at a stack of boxes near the door up to the roof. 

“If it’s not that hard, why don’t more people do it at a… high level? Is that the right way to put it?” Karen says as she moves the gun. “Not everyone’s running around sniping.” 

“Shooting part’s easy. Hitting the target, that’s harder. Hitting a moving target, even more so,” Frank says. 

“What’s the point in shooting if you don’t hit the target?” 

“What’s the point in investigating if you don’t always get the story?”

“Some stories just take a lot longer to develop,” Karen says stiffly.

“Yeah? Same thing with shooters,” Frank says. “Some of us come by it real natural-like, some people gotta practice. Now, remember what I showed you about the scope?” Karen nods. Frank flips on the laser scope, looks through it, then flips it off again. “Okay. Look through there for the blue paint smudge on the brick.”

Karen takes longer than she’d like to find the smudge, but it’s still within seconds, not minutes, and she nods. “Okay. I see it.” 

“Now watch how I do it,” Frank says, gently shouldering her aside and pressing the rifle’s stock against his shoulder. He doesn’t even look through the scope again, just narrows his eyes in the direction of the blue smudge and fires. He backs away, gesturing for Karen to look through the scope again. The smudge has a chip out of the exact middle of it. 

“How’d you know it wouldn’t hurt anyone?” Karen asks, still looking through the scope. 

“Remember those rules I taught you?” Karen nods. “This falls under ‘know your target and what’s behind it’,” Frank explains. 

“Okay, well, how’d you know what’s behind it?” 

“Building that brick’s on doesn’t have stairs up to the roof, just a ladder, and the ladder’s busted. Building behind that is empty, like this one. Only person who might be up there is your boy Red, and I didn’t spot his little bat ears through the scope.”

“He’d have heard us,” Karen says factually, “and come to try to save me from you.” 

“He may yet,” Frank chuckles. “He’s been known to show up from time to time. You ready to give it a go?”

“Not even the silencer can keep him away?” Karen asks as she moves into position behind the gun. 

Frank makes a noise of disgust. “Watching too many movies. Silencer doesn’t make the gun silent. Just makes it sound smaller. Sometimes he ain’t got nothing better to do than come make sure I’m not knocking over a liquor store or robbing an old lady.”

“I wouldn’t take my chances with old ladies in this neighborhood,” Karen says. “Aim for the same place you hit?” 

Frank nods. “Stock against your shoulder, breathe out, gentle squeeze on the trigger,” he instructs. 

“Okay,” Karen says, briefly closing her eyes before focusing again and following Frank’s instructions. The crosshairs line up just above Frank’s mark, then just below, before she feels confident with where she’s aiming. When she thinks she’s ready, she squeezes the trigger, almost immediately turning to Frank for his reaction. 

“Well, you got closer than I expected,” Frank says. “You were holding your breath, though. Breathe _out_ when you shoot. Try it again.”

“That feels counter-intuitive,” Karen says, but she tries to do just that on her second try. This time, she chips the outer edge of the blue paint. 

“Good. Again,” Frank says. 

“Any other tips?” Karen asks. 

“Hit what you’re aiming for.”

“Gee, thanks, Frank,” Karen says, before aiming and squeezing the trigger again. 

“Better,” Frank says. “Again.”

What feels like at least half an hour passes while Karen shoots again and again, reloading a few times, and when she’s consistently hitting the blue mark, now missing blue pigment in the center, Frank finally speaks again. 

“Alright.”

Karen steps back and sinks to the rooftop. “That took forever.” 

“Tomorrow we’ll start with the pistols,” Frank says. “You go on down. You can leave the chair by the stairs.” 

“Oh, tomorrow, small favors,” Karen says, shaking her head. “The duffel bag?” 

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to go to bed, you know,” Karen says informatively. 

“You take the cot,” Frank says. “I’m good on the floor.”

“Put the blanket across the bottom of the door, then.” 

“Yes ma’am.”

“Claire won’t be happy if you succumb to drafts, is all I’m saying,” Karen says. 

“I’ll keep superhero doc happy, I promise,” Frank says. “Go on down and get yourself set up.”

“I’m telling her you call her that!” Karen calls over her shoulder as she starts dragging the chair down the stairs. 

Karen is in the apartment, and has been lying on the cot for awhile before Frank reenters the apartment. He makes muted grunts with each slow roll forward of his wheelchair. He wheels back and forth a few times before finally settling on a blanket against the far wall. 

“Are you sure about the floor?” Karen asks softly. 

“Floor’s just fine,” Frank says. “You get some sleep. We’ll start early tomorrow.”

Karen yawns. “Coffee first.” 

“Coffee always.”

Karen sleeps heavily and deeply for the first half of the night, but after that, Frank’s occasional sleep noises keep waking her up. Karen-the-dog also seems bothered by them, because she goes to lie down next to him, putting her head against his neck. It helps a little, or Karen thinks it must, because she’s able to sleep better again after that. She feels more rested and less regretful than she expects when she wakes up and stretches. 

After she rubs her eyes, she looks around. Frank isn’t in the room, but the door is open, and she can smell coffee brewing. She quickly stands up and brushes herself off, putting her shoes back on just as Frank wheels back into the room. 

“Morning,” Karen says quietly. 

“Got the coffee brewing out in the hall,” Frank says, not making eye contact. “Power’s not on in here this morning. I came in for mugs.”

“Did the one I’m using used to be hers before this?” Karen asks, gesturing at Karen-the-dog. “Since you had two.” 

“I had three, so I only had to wash ‘em once a day,” Frank says. 

“I’m so sorry to make you have to wash more often,” Karen says dryly, picking up one mug and going into the hallway. 

“Hope you don’t need cream and sugar,” Frank calls after her. 

Karen pours her coffee and waits for Frank to roll back into the hall. “I can drink it black and bitter,” she says sweetly. 

“Good,” Frank says, as he enters. “‘Cause that’s the only way we serve it around here.”

“Cafe Frank,” Karen says. “Does Karen need a walk?” 

Frank raises his eyebrows at her. “I dunno. Does she?”

“She’s your dog, Frank.” 

“Yeah, probably,” Frank says. “She’s usually pretty professional about getting her business done quick.”

“Professional puppy,” Karen says, sing-song. “Okay.” 

Frank looks down at the coffee pot, then up at Karen. “Would—could you help me get a cup of coffee?” he asks. 

“Sure, but only for now,” Karen says with a slight smile as she takes the mug and then fills it. “I’m not a secretary anymore, all of that.” 

Frank makes a surprisingly flustered noise. “I didn’t mean—”

“I’m teasing you, Frank.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know that.”

Karen hands him the coffee mug and smiles a little more widely. “We can take a break later and walk down the street for cup number two,” she says. “You know, less washing of mugs.” 

“Karen—dog Karen—is gonna like all these walks,” Frank says. 

“You should take her out a lot, she likes you,” Karen says with a shrug. “And she was patient.” 

“Yeah, she’s a good girl. I take her out as much as I can.” He rubs a hand through his hair. “I’m probably not in a great place for a dog, but I couldn’t leave her where she was, and, well. Here she is.”

“She seems to like you,” Karen points out. 

“Least somebody does, yeah?”

“I’m adding that to my mental dossier,” Karen says. “‘Frank actively anthropomorphizes his dog.’”

“You keeping a dossier on me now?” Frank asks. 

“I keep a dossier on everyone.” 

“What’s mine say besides I anthropomorphize my dog and I drink my coffee black?”

“That you aren’t prone to Mr. Miyagi-style advice, for starters.” 

Frank exhales in a sharp puff of air that’s nearly a laugh. “Hoo. If you were looking for speeches, you came to the _wrong_ rooftop. I hear there’s a guy a couple blocks over that’ll do that for you.”

“The police would love that. The catalog of the rooftop residents of Hell’s Kitchen,” Karen says thoughtfully. “I think I’ll keep that one in my mind, too.” 

“Wouldn’t be real nice of you to turn over my rooftop catalog,” Frank says. 

“Even if I were inclined to, I don’t think they’d believe me.” 

“Oh, I think they’d want to.”

“I could throw in some red herrings. Maybe assign one to Foggy.” 

Frank does laugh at that one. “Yeah. That’s a good one. What kind of costume’s he got? Frog Man? Jumps real high, right?”

“No, he’d wear grey, obviously. The Fog.” 

“Oh yeah. _Obviously_.”

“He sticks to low-lying rooftops, Frank.” 

Frank nods. “Comes in on little cat feet, yeah?”

“Oh, a Renaissance man after all?” Karen asks, surprised. 

“Yeah, I can read. I’m practically William Shakespeare,” Frank says dryly. 

“No, he’s dead,” Karen says in the same tone. 

“Yeah, so’s Carl Sandburg.”

“Yes, but you didn’t claim to be him, at least.” 

“True.”

Karen drains the last of her mug, the rest of it sipped during conversation, and sets it back inside Frank’s apartment. “Now we’ll go walk,” she tells Karen-the-dog, who follows them happily out of the building and around the block. True to Frank’s word, she does her business quickly, and after they dispose of it in a nearby trashcan, they return to Frank’s hovel of an apartment.

“Ready to hit the roof?” Frank asks, as soon as Karen-the-dog is off her leash in the apartment. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” 

Just as they did the night before, Karen goes up first, dragging the duffel and Frank’s wheelchair, and Frank follows her up—slowly—on his own. Also as the night before, Frank starts her off with assembling, cleaning, and disassembling the various firearms, and on the third one, her hair falls into the way for the third time, leading her to swear loudly. 

“Here,” Frank says. “Turn around a second.” Karen is surprised when Frank starts gathering her hair up on her neck. Starting at the crown of her head, he deftly French braids the length of her hair. When he gets to the bottom, he pulls a plain rubber band out of his pocket and wraps it around the end. 

“Where did you—” Karen starts to ask, then cuts herself off. 

“Afghanistan,” Frank says. 

“Really,” Karen says, looking at Frank with an eyebrow raised. 

“First tour,” Frank says. “Hey, just ‘cause the bun’s standard hairstyle requirement for women, doesn’t mean that’s what they always wear. We all learned how to French braid. Came in useful after I got home, too.”

“Okay,” Karen says. “It’s just one of those stories most people would never hear about serving overseas, you know?” 

Frank shrugs. “Of the crazy shit we did to entertain ourselves, playing hairdresser doesn’t even hit the top ten. Hell, top twenty, even.”

“How many of them did you teach all of this stuff to?” Karen asks, waving her hands at the guns. 

“They didn’t need me to teach them all this,” Frank says. “Most of us learned at the same time. I wasn’t even the best shot in the unit.” 

“Who was?” 

“Mary Ellen Strinati from Long Island.”

“I was hoping it was a woman!” Karen says delightedly. 

“Also the one who taught us all to French braid,” Frank says. “And I taught them all the lyrics to _The Pirates of Penzance_.”

“A true Renaissance man, I was right,” Karen says, shaking her head mock-seriously. 

“Maria did drama when we were in high school, so I signed up to do the lights for the senior musical,” Frank says. He smiles, like it’s a nice memory that he’s stumbled upon for once. 

Karen nods, not sure what to say. She doesn’t want to jostle the memory aside in favor of anything less pleasant. Frank, however, stays on mission. He nods his head pointedly at the pistol she had been working on, a Sig Sauer P229 Legion. 

“Well?” Frank says. 

“Harsh taskmaster,” Karen says with a slight smile as she picks it back up. 

“You’re the one said she wanted something more to do than being my Girl Friday,” Frank points out. “I’m giving you something to do.”

“Funny how it still involves getting your weapons very clean,” Karen muses. “This wouldn’t all be a trick to get free gun cleaning, would it?” 

“Cleaning’s an important part of learning the weapon.”

“Uh-huh. That doesn’t rule out that it’s all a scam by instructors.” 

“Listen. I got better things to do with my time than scam you,” Frank says. “I’m a busy man. Full calendar.”

“I don’t actually believe you,” Karen says. “I’ll clean them, but I don’t actually believe you.” 

“Once they’re clean, we’ll get to the good part.”

“Which is that?”

“Learning to fire them.”

“Don’t tell me there’s more to that than aiming and pulling the trigger,” Karen says. “I know how to do those two things.” 

“You do a lot of firing range practice?” Frank asks. “You consistently hitting your target?”

Karen looks past Frank’s shoulder. “When it counts.” 

“Mmhmm. We’re gonna practice. You want to do something real and not just be the secretary, you practice until it’s every time, because _every time_ counts,” Frank says. 

Frank’s idea of practice turns out to be firing guns until Karen feels like she will never hear anything but guns again and until she’s sure her muscles only remember how to shoot, as the sun reaches its apex and Karen’s stomach rumbles more than once. 

“Need to take a break?” Frank asks. 

“You need to eat, too,” Karen points out. 

“Didn’t say I didn’t,” Frank says. “You go on down. Get dog-Karen and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Such as it is.” 

Frank makes a face to indicate how unimpressed he is by her humor. Karen shrugs and heads towards the stairs, stopping by the apartment to get Karen-the-dog and her leash, then wait downstairs, the door slightly cracked. Frank makes it down to the lobby faster than she expects.

“Alright. Let’s go eat,” Frank says. 

“Where are we eating?” Karen asks. 

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“God, you’re just like Matt,” Karen says, following Frank on a zigzag trek through Hell’s Kitchen. 

“I am _nothing_ like Matt,” Frank insists, directing Karen down 45th to 9th Avenue, where he turns right. They stop at a statue of a giant pink pig standing on two legs and dressed in a red dinner jacket. 

“Rudy’s?” 

“Free hotdogs with purchase of a drink,” Frank says, looking pleased with himself. 

“I do appreciate a free lunch,” Karen admits. 

“This is just stop number one, so eat whatever you want. We still got some work to do.”

“We didn’t bring any of the guns with us,” Karen says. 

“Yeah, alright,” Frank says. He _definitely_ has at least one gun with him.

Karen sighs and shakes her head, following Frank into Rudy’s, where she eats one free hot dog and two purchased hot dogs, and Karen-the-dog sits patiently at their feet. Frank looking how Frank looks, now with the addition of the wheelchair, nobody questions that Karen-the-dog is anything other than a service dog, or if they do, they don’t do it within earshot of Frank and Karen. 

“You had enough?” Frank asks, sounding amused. “I bet they got a couple more dogs in the back, probably.”

“Shut up,” Karen says flatly, shaking her head at him. 

“You sure? Another couple might do you some good. Get a little meat on you.”

“You’re hilarious, Frank.” 

“Yeah, I know.”

Frank pays, and Karen decides that since it’s his fault she’s so hungry, she’s not going to worry about where the money came from. Once they’re squared away, Frank says, “Come on,” and starts down 9th Avenue again for two-and-a-half blocks, turning left on 42nd. They pass a bank, a Subway, and a Burger King before Frank stops and gestures at Kaufman’s Army & Navy. 

“You need another gun?” Karen guesses. 

“It’s not for me. It’s for you,” Frank says. “You can’t help me in heels and a pencil skirt.”

“Ginger did everything Fred did, except backward and in heels,” Karen says tartly, but follows Frank inside. 

“Ginger wasn’t shooting child sex traffickers from a rooftop,” Frank retorts. 

“They would have been more interesting dance scenes if she had been.”

“Yeah.”

The older man behind the counter inside Kaufman’s seems to recognize Frank, but doesn’t say anything about the wheelchair, so they obviously don’t have any kind of deep friendship – not that Frank has much of a friendship with anyone except, possibly, Karen now, and isn’t that a frightening thought. Frank directs Karen to a stack of tactical pants in several colors, ranging from black to khaki to an assortment of camos. 

“Black,” Frank says, wheeling up the aisle to look at a stack of long-sleeved shirts. He grabs two sizes, also in black, and tosses them to Karen. He lets go of Karen-the-dog’s leash and lets her wander up and down the aisles, happily sniffing things. Karen hopes that Karen-the-dog doesn’t discover the rack of combat boots in the back, with her penchant for enthusiastic boot-licking. 

“Anything else?” Karen asks. 

“Yeah. Go find you some boots in your size,” Frank says, pointing towards the boot rack. “And grab a couple pair of those thick boot socks, yeah? Trust me on that one.”

“Socks, got it,” Karen says, doing as Frank says before taking the entire bundle to the changing area. She’s not convinced Frank got her size at all, but when she tries on the second shirt, it does fit. She finishes trying on the boots and pants, and turns to look at herself in the mirror. 

“Well, hell,” she says out loud. 

“One more thing,” Frank says through the curtain. His hand pokes into the changing area to hand her a black tactical vest, with a different cut than his. 

“That’s not going to help much,” Karen mutters, pulling it on. 

“Use the velcro on the sides to adjust it. I can help, if you need me to.”

“I’m assuming the idea is no gaps.” 

“You should be able to bend at the waist, but all the vital parts should be covered. Try to get a little overlap on the sides, too,” Frank says. “Last thing we need is both of us stuck in a chair. We’d end up having to send Red in to finish the job.”

“He couldn’t hack it,” Karen calls through the curtain, staring at herself in the mirror. 

“Done?” Frank asks. 

Karen keeps studying her reflection, from the French braid down to the steel toes of the boots. She isn’t sure what the right word for her look is—maybe badass, maybe not— but she knows one thing. She pulls the curtain back and stares at Frank. 

“I look exactly like the lady version of you.” 

Frank looks her up and down, cataloguing her outfit, before nodding. “Yeah. That’ll work,” he finally says. “So. You ready to get started?”


	4. Things That Come In Pairs

Karen wakes up the following day with the need to follow a few more sources and check in with the people she does know who are not named Frank, or Matt. A brief stop at her work desk gives her a few messages, a few texts arrange some meetings for later in the day, and after a cup of coffee on the corner, Karen presses Foggy’s name on her phone screen. 

After four rings, just before the call would roll into voicemail, Foggy answers, “Karen! Hey! Sorry, I was in an elevator.”

“One day cell phone companies will fix that issue,” Karen says. 

“But until that day, so many missed calls,” Foggy says. “So how have you been? We haven’t talked in forever.”

Karen pauses briefly, trying to figure out how to answer that. “Oh, you know. Busy. Following leads.” 

“Oh yeah? Working on anything exciting?” Foggy asks. The nice thing about talking to Foggy, or one of the nice things, is that when he asks questions, he’s always sincerely interested in hearing the answers, no matter how long they are. Karen has lost a half hour or so on more than one occasion, because Foggy won’t interrupt with anything other than an encouraging noise or a “go on.” 

“Those missing girls, right now,” Karen says. “It’s a little sad, but interesting.” 

“Oh right. I read your article about that. You found good leads?”

“Maybe too many good ones,” Karen admits. 

“Uh oh. Dangerous ones?” Foggy asks. “Wait, this isn’t a ‘just in case it’s the last time I talk to you’ call, is it?”

“What? No. I don’t think so?” 

“Because I’ve fielded calls like that before, and I don’t want to do it with you. I like you in one piece.”

“I’m fine, Foggy. I can take care of myself!” 

“I know you can, but the city is full of _weird_ crime right now,” Foggy says. “And think about how many times,” he lowers his voice, “Matt got stabbed or shot or hurt, and he has super senses.”

“I’m not going to take any foolish chances,” Karen promises. 

“Okay. Good. I believe in you, you know that,” Foggy says. 

“I know you do. How’s your work going?” 

“Mostly boring, what with me being a small, but completely adorable, fish in a huge corporate pond,” Foggy says. “I don’t usually get the exciting cases.”

“Find your own exciting cases?” Karen suggests. 

“Marci promised me a heads up the next time Jones needs somebody to go down to the station and bail her out. That apparently gets pretty exciting,” Foggy says. 

“Well, we know exciting, at least.” 

“It’s like that curse, may you live in exciting times.”

“Someone cursed us at birth, Foggy.” 

“My money’s on a Shakespearian swamp witch,” Foggy says. “Always bet on the swamp witch.”

Karen laughs in spite of everything. “I’ll keep that in mind, Foggy. I’ll keep that in mind. For all of my betting days.” 

“I’m full of sage wisdom, which you’d probably remember if you called me a little more often,” Foggy chides. 

“Hint received,” Karen says wryly. “But you could initiate the call.” 

“I am already intimately acquainted with your voice mail, _thank you_.”

“It’s a delightful voice mail that should not be maligned,” Karen says, “and it’s not my fault you call when I’m actively following up leads.” 

“Are you ever not actively following up leads? Or ever even just _passively_ following up leads?” Foggy asks. 

“Some hours lend themselves more to observation than others?” 

“So I should try during daylight hours?’

“But not too early.” 

“So it’s a very limited window that I’m shooting for. Noted,” Foggy says. “I should probably get back to work. Marci’s standing in the doorway looking at me sternly.” Marci says something in the background. “Marci says I have used up my time allotted for personal calls. She also says to tell you hello and you still owe her a drink at someplace that, I quote, ‘doesn’t mix their cocktails using bilge pumps’.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind. Bye, Foggy.” 

“Don’t be a stranger, Karen.”

Karen tucks her phone away and heads down the street. There’d been a message about someone with detailed information on the girls, including addresses and combination locks, and Karen hopes she looks non-threatening enough that the person will actually make contact with her. She’s deliberately picked a cafe with a large outdoor space that opened onto an alley, in hopes that the multitude of escape routes would appeal. 

She arrives early, so that if the location is being watched, it’s clear she’s arriving alone. She orders a water, then waves the server away. Ten minutes after the scheduled time, a young man sits down across from her, breathing heavily and looking scared. 

“You have some numbers for me?” Karen asks. 

“You the, uh, newspaper lady?” the young man asks. “You got a badge or ID or something?”

“I am, and I do,” Karen says, flashing her ID briefly without letting him touch it or study it too long. 

“So is there, uh, some kind of reward. Uh. For this information?”

Karen exhales, thinking rapidly. There currently isn’t, but without offering one, she doubts she’ll get the information they need. She needs. After another beat, she nods. “There is.” 

“How much?” he asks. 

“Fifty now,” Karen says, calculating the amount of cash in her bag. “More if it pans out.” 

The young man nods his head. “A’ight. But listen, I never saw the guys in charge. They send these big dudes in to hire kids from the neighborhood. We only ever see the big dudes, and the big dudes only ever see their boss. I don’t know who the boss’s boss is.”

“Whatever you know that will help.” 

“I know some addresses where the girls get brought,” the young man says. “They don’t keep them there long, though, and those places are locked up tight. Padlocks on the gates, shit like that.”

“I’ll take the addresses anyway,” Karen says. “That’s a big help, thank you.” She pushes her notebook across the table, pen on top. The young man takes the pad and scribbles down two addresses. He squints at what he’s written, scribbles out part of one address, and writes something else. 

“Can I get that fifty?” he asks, pen still in hand. Karen pulls it out and sets it on the table. The young man puts his hand on it and pulls it towards himself, then scribbles a series of numbers down under the second address before pushing the pad towards Karen. “I only have the combination for that one.”

“It helps,” Karen says. “I’ll contact you about the rest of the reward after I look into these.” 

The guy nods. “How much when the info’s good?”

“I have to talk to my boss to finalize the amount,” Karen says, though she has no intention of talking to anyone but Frank about it. 

“And you’ll let me know?”

“I’ll let you know. I promise.” 

“Cool,” the young man says standing up and shoving the fifty dollars into his pocket. He disappears down what Karen thinks of as her thoughtfully-chosen alley, and Karen counts mentally to one hundred-fifty before standing up and heading the opposite direction, towards Frank’s. Two addresses and a combination for a lock are a lot more than they had that morning. 

Karen barely raps on the door to Frank’s hovel before pushing it out. “Frank, I got something.” 

“Intel or take-out?” Frank asks. 

“Addresses and a combination lock.” 

“Well, that sounds too good to be true,” Frank says. “How’d you manage that?”

“Cash,” Karen says with a shrug. 

“Fair enough. Gotta plan?”

“We have to move pretty fast, he says they don’t keep them there long. I’m thinking we let the girls escape, and then confront the perps.” 

Frank grimaces. “I ain’t exactly fast right now.”

“I’ll go in. There’s a taller building near one of the addresses, if I’m thinking of the right intersection.” Karen shows Frank the paper. 

“Uh-uh. No way you’re ready for that yet,” Frank says. “You think a couple days of firearms practice and you’re ready to storm in there like some kinda—”

“What else can we do?” Karen interrupts. 

“We’ll figure out a way to get me in there,” Frank says. 

“Frank, I’m not trying to be insensitive, but you can’t _roll faster_ if things get bad!” 

Frank scowls. “I can’t let you—”

“ _Let_ me?” Karen says. “You don’t _let_ me do anything.” 

“You’re damn right I don’t let you do anything! You’re a reporter, not a—I don’t know what I was even thinking with this, teaching you how to shoot,” Frank says, sounding angrier and angrier. “You got no business being out there doing this stuff. This isn’t _you_. Hell, you don’t even approve of my _methods_.”

“You were thinking that someone had to do something, and you were right!” Karen says. “Do you want to just let those girls get taken away to—I can’t even imagine what they’ll do to them!” 

“Are you really ready to shoot someone? To kill someone?” Frank demands. “Not in self-defense, not in the heat of the moment, but to plan it out, carry it out.” He shakes his head violently. “I was a damn fool, doing this to you, bringing you into this. You don’t believe in what I do. You _tolerate_ it.”

Karen narrows her eyes. “I can’t tolerate the idea of even one girl not being saved when we can do something, either. Most people don’t get the luxury of only doing things they believe in fully, Frank.” 

Frank sighs. “Fine. Fine, then, yeah? We’ll do it your way, but you gotta have a plan before you go in. You need an idea of the layout, need to do surveillance, see how many people come in, how many go out, what they’re packing.”

“We can see if the building plans are online, for starters,” Karen says, then repeats to him everything that the young man had said before leaving. Frank nods as he listens, his expression distant, like he’s really thinking over everywhere she’s saying.

“Alright,” he finally says. “You know there’s a good chance you’re not getting close to the guy at the top if you go at it this way, yeah?”

“I didn’t start following the story to get the guy at the top, Frank. I wanted to find the girls.” 

“Yeah, and finding them’ll disrupt his operation for a while, too, but you don’t know he won’t start over again in another city, or just wait a few months and be right back at it again here.”

Karen shrugs. “The commotion may result in some investigation from other parties.” 

“So we’ve got two locations?”

“But only a combination for one of them.” 

“So what’s your plan, then? Hit both? Recon, then decide which one?” Frank asks. “This is your show now, yeah? Tell me how it’s running.”

“Focusing on the one where we have more information, unless recon reveals it’s got other issues,” Karen says. 

“Guess we’d better go over some surveillance protocols, then,” Frank says. “Roof?”

“You.” 

“Am I gonna be able to help you inside the building from there?”

“Knowing you, probably, but unless you have any other people up your sleeve, you’re on the roof,” Karen says. “I’m not stupid enough to suggest we involve Matt.” 

“What about the superhero doc? Think she knows someone who’d help?” Frank asks. 

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t—I don’t know if I’d trust someone we just met.” 

Frank laughs. “‘Cause _we_ know each other so well?”

“I did a little bit save your life, you know.” 

“That an argument for you knowing me or for why you helped me?”

Karen shrugs. “Whichever is most convincing to you.” 

“Yeah,” Frank says, shaking his head. “Want me to do up your hair before you put the uniform on?”

“The _uniform_? Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

“What do want to call it?”

“Outfit?”

“Murderin’ suit?”

“That sounds like I’m putting on a fat suit or something, Frank!” 

Frank shrugs and pats his knee so Karen-the-dog runs over. “Your stealth gear.” He scratches Karen-the-dog under the chin. “We should’ve worked on stealth. We should take tonight, work on stealth and tactics, go after the place tomorrow night.”

“What if they move them tonight?” 

“I know you want to save ‘em. You know I do, too. But going in like this, no real recon, no real plan, me stuck in this,” he smacks the side of one wheel with the flat of a hand, startling Karen-the-dog, “damn chair. Don’t feel right. Too much that can go sideways.”

“The latter isn’t going to change, and too much else could, including the information I have,” Karen says with a sigh. 

“Well, like you said, you’re nobody’s Girl Friday. You do whatever you gotta do, long as you get me up on that roof for cover fire,” Frank says, not looking at Karen as he speaks. 

“I’ll get you on a roof,” Karen promises. “Maybe we should look at the building layout, make a tentative plan, and then nap.” 

“Yeah. Sure, let’s do that.”

Karen smiles, not letting on she was going to insist. She’s pretty sure Frank needs the nap, maybe even needs two naps a day, given how recent his injury was, but if she acts like she needs the nap too, he seems to acquiesce better. 

A Google search with a little refinement turns up the layout of the building, and with the help of aerial shots of the area, the two of them come up with a very barebones, tentative plan for the evening. Karen modifies a few of her ideas at Frank’s insistence, and then she looks pointedly at Frank and then the cot. 

“Naptime.” 

Frank looks at her dubiously, but says, “Yeah,” and rolls towards his pile of blankets on the floor. Karen rolls her eyes, but figures it’s a victory to get Frank to nap without an argument. The question of where to nap will have to be a different fight. 

Karen isn’t sure that she can fall asleep, but after fifteen minutes or so of lying on the cot listening to Frank fall asleep, she does drift off. When she wakes up, she can tell by Frank’s breathing that he’s still sleeping, a fact that makes her feel a bit self-satisfied. 

She stays on the cot until she hears Frank stir, because there’s no good reason not to continue the deception that she needed the nap. When Frank starts to haul himself off the floor, Karen stretches and sits up, reaching for her shoes before stopping. 

“Where did you put my clothes?” she asks Frank. “I should go ahead and change.” 

“On the shelf over there,” Frank says, gesturing at an only-somewhat-dilapidated bookshelf. “Cleared the middle one off for you. Couldn’t reach the top, but you can swap ‘em around if you want.”

Karen nods and walks over, picking up the stack of clothing and heading towards the cot to lay it out. She stops midway through the process. 

“Frank!” 

“What?” Frank asks, all too innocent-sounding.

“Why did you do this!” 

“Do what?”

“This!” Karen says, holding up the vest and shaking it towards him. “You know what you did!” 

Frank glances up at the vest, which now has a still-slightly-damp white skull sprayed on it, very similar to the one on Frank’s own body armor. “Looks normal to me.”

“It did not have a skull on it before, Frank!” 

“Figure it made sense if it looked like mine,” Frank says. 

“How, please tell me, does that make _sense_?” 

“If people see it, they’ll know we work together,” Frank says, like that is somehow an important issue. “We don’t want ‘em to think you’re my competition or something, yeah?”

“Frank, you don’t have competition.” 

“Exactly. I got _you_.”

“No one in Hell’s Kitchen thinks you would have competition!” 

Frank shrugs. “You never can tell what people’re gonna get worked up about.”

Karen sighs. “Okay, that’s fair. And true.” 

“Especially with all the, you know,” Frank waves his hand dismissively, “the gentrifying.”

“The gentrifiers _are_ the ones who get worked up.” 

Frank nods his agreement. “Besides, it’s not like like I put a bow on it or anything.”

“If you had, we’d be switching vests, and you know it.” 

“Yeah.”

Karen finishes sorting out the clothes and then pivots back to Frank. “I’ll meet you in the hall.” 

“I can just turn around, you know,” Frank says, but he starts wheeling towards the door anyway. 

“You could, but I like it better this way!” Karen calls after him before quickly stripping down and getting dressed in the uniform. When she gets out into the hall, Frank has also changed. “Do we need to grab anything else?” 

“The duffel, make sure we’ve got all the ammo.”

“ _All_ of the ammo?” Karen questions. 

“You know how many guys they got there?” Frank asks. 

“I know how many they had last night.” 

“Always assume there’s at least two more than that,” Frank says. “You want to run out of ammo before the job’s done?”

“I think you think I shoot faster than I do,” Karen says, feeling amused. 

“I think you’d better shoot faster than they do,” Frank says. 

“That was my plan, yes,” Karen says dryly. “That’s my only plan.” 

“Good to know you’re prepared.”

“I knew you’d be proud of my preparation.” 

It takes less time than Karen expects to get to the location, but more time than she thought to get Frank up to the roof of the adjoining building and set up. She studies the gate with the combination lock on it through her binoculars, then turns to Frank. 

“Any last minute changes necessary, you think?” she asks. 

“I don’t like this,” Frank says, narrowing his eyes in the direction of the building. “Place this size, should be twice the number of guy on perimeter.”

“Maybe the guy at the top doesn’t trust people,” Karen says. “You wouldn’t, either.” 

“Yeah, but I also wouldn’t have a warehouse full of little girls,” Frank says bitterly. 

“Well, obviously. Alternatively, he’s split his goons up, and half are at this other address.” 

“Maybe,” Frank says, looking dubious. “So you’re going in through the gate, and then what? Around there, back through the side bay?” He points along the side of the building. 

“It looked like the best place for holding the girls was near there, so yeah,” Karen says. “My primary goal is to get them free and tell them where to go. ‘Run outside, turn left, turn right, and keep running.’” Karen pauses. “I may tell them that if they need help, they should yell for Daredevil. He’d like swooping in a few blocks away, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah, he loves being the big hero, long as his hands don’t have to get too dirty,” Frank says. 

“It suits our purposes for tonight,” Karen says. 

“Well, this is your show. You tell me how we’re playing this.”

“If I’m able to get in and get out and get the girls out without shooting, I’m good with that,” Karen says. “The point is to make them safe. If I take out a few bad guys, I’m good with that, too.” 

“And I’ll be up here,” Frank says. “I’d feel better if you had someone there with you, but I’ll still be up here.”

“We’re doing the best we can with what we’ve got,” Karen says optimistically. 

“This shouldn’t be on you,” Frank mutters as he shakes his head. 

“This shouldn’t be on either of us, but for whatever reason, the police are looking away. Wonder why?” Karen says. 

“It’s always the same reasons: money, power, or both,” Frank says. “Whoever the big boss is, he’s somebody with connections. They always are.”

“Exactly, and since the police are looking away, I’m thinking legal power,” Karen says. “Should we wait another thirty minutes for it to get darker and have foot traffic die down, or should we go?” 

“Yeah. Lemme have the binoculars, and I’ll watch for a while, see if I can see a rotation pattern with the guards.” Karen hands them to Frank, then leans on the bricks herself, scanning the surrounding area silently. Eventually, Frank lowers the binoculars. 

“Well?” Karen asks. 

“Looks like fifteen minute rotations, two guys on the north side, two on the south,” Frank says. “Time it right and you can get through the gate after the first pair turns the corner, but before the second pair gets back ‘round to the front.”

“No time like the present, I guess,” Karen says, carefully checking her weapons and the spare ammo, like Frank insisted. “You’re set up?” Frank nods. “See you back here after,” she says, then pivots to leave. 

Before she can start to walk away, though, Frank reaches out and grabs her hand. Karen stops and stares at their hands. Frank tugs her closer, looking up at her, and for a moment, Karen thinks he’s going to try to kiss her. In those brief seconds, Karen tries to decide how she feels about that, but she really isn’t sure. 

Just as suddenly as Frank grabbed her hand, he lets go of it. He clears his throat and says, “Stay sharp,” in this weird ‘80s movie football coach voice, like he’s about to slap her on the back. 

“Right,” Karen says, knowing her own voice sounds weird. “Sharp.” 

After she reaches the street level, Karen stands inside the doorway for a few long minutes, waiting so that it will be closer to time for the guards to leave the gate unprotected for the brief window. The first part of the operation goes almost too smoothly. The guards disappear, the other guards don’t appear, and Karen has plenty of time to use her purchased combination on the lock. It works perfectly, and Karen pulls the gate closed enough to give the appearance that nothing is amiss. 

From there, she goes to the shadows closest to the building, attempting to peer in the windows as she goes. She sees the occasional shadow moving, but most of the windows are dark. Twice, she drops to the ground when she thinks the guards might have spotted her, but both times, nothing else happens. 

Karen had anticipated having to pick the lock on the building, but on a whim, she reaches out and slowly tries the knob. It yields soundlessly, which makes her almost squeak in surprise as she scrambles out of the way of the opening door. When the door is open, Karen looks around on the ground until she finds a rock that shoves under the door and keeps it open. The easier it is for the girls to leave, the better. 

Three yards into the hallway, Karen hears what she thinks is one of Frank’s guns, followed by a thud directly behind her. She turns, and one of the guards is lying in the doorway. “Well, thanks?” Karen mutters, and she pops her head back out the door long enough to see that another guard is lying to the right of the door. “Gotta get you out of the way,” Karen tells the corpse in the doorway, and she drags him to the left side of the doorway before nodding once in the direction of Frank. 

It’s a little disconcerting to think that she didn’t hear the guards behind her, but she’s also aware that she knew Frank was up there, watching her back, and she’s sure that’s part of it. She pauses in the hallway to make sure she doesn’t hear anyone else behind her, then exhales quietly and heads for the first intersection of hallways. 

Karen pauses again and listens. There’s no noticeable sounds, but something makes her pull out one of the guns and turn towards the left, instead of the right. Her hunch pays off within a minute, when she sees one of the missing girls through a door’s window. She can’t remember her name, but she recognizes her from the pictures, and Karen immediately starts to pick the lock on the door. 

The girl looks fearful, then startled. “Turn right, run out the door, and head out the gate, as quietly as you can,” Karen whispers. “If you need help after you’re more than a block or two away, yell once for Daredevil. Which way are the others?” 

“I think they’re down there,” the girl says, pointing down the hallway Karen was already heading down. “I’ve seen them dragging girls down that hall. I’ve heard them screaming down there.”

“Thank you,” Karen says. “Go on. Run.” 

The girl does exactly as Karen says and runs without looking back. She doesn’t say anything else, and Karen briefly considers that she didn’t say thanks. Karen proceeds down the hall and decides that in her position, she might not say thank you, either. After all, the real thanks would be if someone had prevented it in the first place. 

Karen repeats the same process of picking the lock and giving the girls instructions at the next three doors, all three of them taking off running as soon as she nods for them to do so. She absently thinks about the other guards, then assumes Frank’s taken care of them. She assumes that if Matt’s around, he’s probably started finding the girls by then. 

There are three more doors, two that look like the same kind of small room, and one set of double doors. Karen starts to push herself to work faster—the double door room is big, if she remembers the floor plan correctly, and so far the girls she’s seen didn’t look as if they would have been screaming the way the first girl described. Karen picks the lock on the first door, sends the girl away, then waits when she hears more footsteps just after starting to pick the next lock. 

She squeezes herself into the doorframe, at the same time pulling her gun out and starting to aim it. If it’s not one of the girls returning—and Karen can’t imagine why it would be—she knows she has to shoot, and worry about who and why either later or not at all. The face that appears in her scope is pasty and pudgy, with at least a day’s worth of stubble growing on it, and that’s all she registers before pulling the trigger. 

Her aim isn’t as true as she’d like, but the bullet hits the goon square on the nose. It’s a little appalling the way his face explodes, but Karen thinks it’s possibly more appalling that she’s amused by it, too. He falls over heavily, and the resulting sound makes Karen think she’ll need to work as fast as possible. 

The last of the small rooms opens, and Karen repeats her instructions. “Just step over that guy,” she adds, and the girl nods. The double doors loom, and Karen moves to put her back to them, waiting to see if someone will come investigate the sound of the goon falling. Thirty seconds pass, then a minute, and Karen relaxes enough to turn to the task of picking the double doors. 

When the doors open, Karen grimaces to herself. There are, in fact, multiple girls in the room, and the younger ones are being shielded by the older ones. Karen doesn’t want to consider how young some of the girls are, but she can’t afford time for that sentimentality. 

“There’s one body in the hallway. Turn right at the intersection and run out of here,” Karen tells them. “If you run into anyone before you’re out of the building, scream, and I’ll come.” Now that she’s almost certain that she’s found most of the girls, the lack of investigating goons suggests either that Frank’s been busy or they could still run into trouble. 

When the last two girls have left the room—what looks like the oldest assisting the youngest—Karen double-checks the empty room, then each room down the hallway. On the other side of the intersection of hallways are more empty rooms, until Karen surprises a goon sitting at a folding card table. He first is looking at the discarded card game somewhat disgustedly, then appears surprised to see her. He reaches for his weapon, but Karen already has hers up and out, and it doesn’t take more than a few seconds to squeeze off a round. 

“Game over,” Karen tells him dryly. “Your friends weren’t coming back, anyway.” 

The building cleared to her satisfaction, Karen heads back for the door she came in, preparing herself for more bodies courtesy of Frank. The fenced-in portion of the property is empty of all girls, thankfully, and she spots at least three more bodies lying on the ground that weren’t there before. 

Despite that, another goon lurches into her field of vision, and a few seconds later, one of Frank’s bullets grazes the goon, but doesn’t make him go down. Karen almost gasps, but instead takes aim and puts two rounds in the middle of the goon’s chest. 

“Much better than the nose,” Karen mutters to herself. She hurries out of the gate and back into the adjoining building, heading for the roof, her heart still racing. Most of her can’t believe that the plan actually worked. She went in, picked the locks, sent the girls away, and killed when necessary. All of that courses through her mind as she climbs the last flight of stairs, and when she sees Frank, she leans over and kisses him hard. 

Frank seems startled, but he doesn’t exactly try to get away. He just goes with it in a very non-pushy, Frank-ish sort of way, not grabbing for her but not pushing her off him, either. They kiss for long enough that Karen starts to wonder how on earth she’s supposed to explain herself, and as she pulls away, she decides it might be easier to avoid attempting to explain it. Frank will probably understand anyway, she tells herself. 

“We should get out of here,” Karen says quietly. “Someone’s probably called in the shots by now.” 

“Yeah,” Frank says, nodding. “You got ‘em all out?”

“Even the little ones,” Karen confirms. “And I told them to call for Matt, so he’s probably shepherding them away.” 

“Good for him,” Frank says. 

“Good for us, too. It’ll distract people.” Karen scoops up the duffel bag. “Anything else I’m forgetting?” 

Frank shakes his head. “Looks like I’m _your_ Girl Friday.”

“Oh, Frank, you’d look _so_ good in heels!” 

“Well, since you’ve seen to’ve grown into the uniform, can’t say as I’m not considering that as a valid option.”

“Don’t forget the pencil skirt,” Karen says as they leave the roof. She pushes Frank down multiple alleys on the way back to his hovel, then sighs as they reach the lobby. 

“I really hope you have power right now,” Karen tells Frank. 

“I can crawl up the stairs under my own power if I have to,” Frank says. 

“No, I want to watch the news,” Karen says. “I know you can do that.” 

“Yeah, that, too.”

“I’m curious!” Karen says defensively as the elevator arrives. “Aren’t you?” 

Frank shrugs. “I was watching it from the outside. Pretty sure you got the girls all out, and nobody else walked out of that building other than you.”

“I guess I just want to make sure we got most of the girls that are missing. Maybe hear that one of the dead ones led to something,” Karen admits. 

“Yeah,” Frank says, his tone gentler. “Plus, you’ll have all the insider information for your story. Stuff they won’t have on the news, stuff you can get right.”

“I’ll tell my boss I have a really good inside source,” Karen says wryly. “He’d never suspect.” 

“You’re your own inside source.”

“You know Matt wouldn’t suspect either,” Karen says. The elevator stops on Frank’s floor. “We should probably take you back to see Claire soon, now that this is less urgent.” 

“We’ll worry about that tomorrow, yeah?” Frank says. 

“I’m just giving you plenty of warning that you have to be civilized tomorrow, Frank,” Karen says teasingly. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank says. “I’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow.”

“Okay, Scarlett,” Karen says. Karen-the-dog greets them happily at the door, and Frank starts to pet her. “There you go, you can be the _Scarlett_ Punisher.” 

“Maybe we’ll both just be the regular ol’ Punisher,” Frank suggests. 

“You could have a red skull,” Karen says. 

“No.”

“So committed to black and white,” Karen says with a mock sigh. “I’ll pull out my laptop.” 

“I’m a simple man, Other Punisher. Black and white’s just how I see things,” Frank says. 

Karen shakes her head as her laptop boots up. “If I’d said Violet, you’d be up for a purple skull, but now the moment’s passed.” 

“Yeah. Just find your news.”

Karen avoids the newspapers, going straight for the television news and NY1. The story about the girls is suddenly the A story, above the fold, but when she reads the headline and the lede, she sighs. 

“‘Two Punishers?’” she parrots. “‘Punisher One and Punisher Two.’” She sighs again. “Frank, we’re like Dr. Seuss.” 

“Which one of us is One and which one’s Two?” Frank asks. 

“Clearly you’re Two,” Karen says. “You even have an imitation Karen.” 

“Woof!” Karen-the-dog says, excited to be included in the conversation. 

“See?” Karen says. “Even she agrees.” 

“Alright, alright, the both of you,” Frank says. “I’m fine with being Punisher Two, yeah? But this two Karens thing, now that’s just a step too far. Either you gotta change your name or she does.”

Karen shakes her head. “Frank, you have only yourself to blame.”


End file.
